Behind the punch-clock, out back of the hotel, in the woods,
while adults are sewn to sheets, to registers, to highways—
we are a better version of adults.
Our eyes are hot and our bodies connected.
If their eyes were concise enough to trespass our shirts,
to behold our soft new breasts surging,
an egg would clog their throats,
a thrombus block their breathing.
We're twelve and our minds,
our minds are so green they oscillate.
We make a room in a clearing.
Or rather the space between six large trees presents itself
and invites us into a secret chamber in ourselves.
We stand in place and molt.
Clearly our minds are treetops.
How easy to make an oven.
Beds are no work at all.
With a little pressure
a precise cleanliness
implies our floor.
Our superior cunning adapts garbage
to surfeit the parameters of what’s needed,
a garland of dead leaves weaves a window,
a branch ripens to a broom,
the wind and wavering shadows
pleat the workings of a wide wending clock.
When we turn the knob (the knot on a tree)
our whole minds work.
We unearth wine bottles with our fingertips
and delicately touch their sacred collars—
then handle them roughly—
various green hues eye-dazzling with electrical sparks,
vacillating flutes accruing to paramouring densities
at their bulbous bottoms.
Our hearts rhapsodize and lift.
Our underarms sting with the gravity of mushroom scent.
To see, we force our blood flowers downward,
like red birds back into a black box,
and harness their beating.
Freckled pure pleasure, our faces fret our work.
Form. From out of air we generate form.
Our fort exclusive, personal,
the centre of a world we'll build upon,
until eventually we're bored
and it's buried.
ERIN WILSON has contributed poems to West Texas Literary Review, San Pedro River Review, New Madrid, and Minola Review, with work forthcoming from Split Rock Review and The American Journal of Poetry. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario.