I was drawn to the dust, marveled at what swarmed
from a girlish room—the red possibilities, the secret places.
Desperate to see the bones beneath amusement, I began
in the garden, followed the bullmoose stirring
the air outside, his quiet right to be alive opened wide
like the womb I contribute to mankind. This time
to feel depressed flashed out of us, took the hard oak
yelling resentful. Night wouldn’t come and I wasn’t sure—
the telephone would hear me from the bedroom,
shaken free of hysteria. A door opened and I wanted
to believe in daylight and puzzles, in trucks and trash
and truth. We waited for calamity. Time passed so slowly.
There were oceans to keep in place and if a fire started
I could hold it like a child, laughing and eager.
This is an erasure poem. Source text: Andrews, V. C. Flowers in the Attic. Pocket Books Paperback ed. New York: Pocket Books, 2014. 71-84. Print.
Based in Austin, TX, E. Kristin Anderson is the author of nine chapbooks, including A Guide for the Practical Abductee, Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night, 17 seventeen XVII and Behind, All You’ve Got (forthcoming). Kristin is a poetry reader at Cotton Xenomorph and an editorial assistant at Sugared Water. Once upon a time she worked nights at The New Yorker.
