Erin Wilson
Hosanna
Wool, moon, wood smoke,
winter berries, bread, birches.
Cyclically,
chickadees, socks.
For less obvious reasons,
enamelware.
Because the world doesn't work in terms of only iron,
kintsugi.
As prayer,
the smell of bacon, a rosary of bumblebees, Bach by Yo-Yo Ma at the Proms.
My friend laments,
there should be a phrase for this,
words so dear to us, no one else should use them.
Personal nostalgia, I try on.
Indigo velour, I settle.
However, igneous and muskeg,
thump my chest.
Birdsong,
gesticulates.
Erin Wilson's poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in december magazine, Reed Magazine, The Honest Ulsterman, CV2, The Emerson Review, and in numerous other publications. Her first collection is At Home with Disquiet; her second, Blue, is forthcoming (both from Circling Rivers). She lives in a small town on Robinson-Huron Treaty territory in Northern Ontario, Canada.