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Quiet, I was getting ready

to be that lovely spill

 

of golden light and I think

I understand that life-mask,

 

learning how to die, shaken,

the usual self turned back onto

 

living on that queen’s apocalyptic

moment of combustion,

 

my broken body almost running,

cheeks flushed gray, cool, intent—

 

God’s voice was a great weariness

and I almost swung by the wrist

 

in the dusk, hanging hunted

calling for mother.

 

*

This is an erasure poem. Source: King, Stephen. Christine. New York: Signet, 1983. 45-47 Print.



Based in Austin, TX, E. Kristin Anderson has been published widely in magazines.  She’s also the author of eight chapbooks, including A Guide for the Practical Abductee, Fire in the Sky and Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night.  Kristin is Special Projects Manager for ELJ and a poetry editor at Found Poetry Review.  Once upon a time, she worked at The New Yorker.

Current Issue
22 Jul 2024

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Jadwiga is the city. Her body dissolves in the walls, her consciousness seeps into the cracks, her memory merges with the memories of buildings.
Jadwiga a város. Teste felszívódik a falakban, tudata behálózza a repedéseket, emlékezete összekeveredik az épületek emlékezetével.
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Here lies the queen, giant and still, each of her six arms sprawled, open, curved, twitching like she forgot she no longer breathed.
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मैंने कहा आकाश/ और स्टेनलेस स्टील की थाली से ढक दिया/ बासी पड़ रही रोटियों को
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