Erin Vance

Erin Vance


creator of semi-beautiful things, tree nymph.


My face is flaking- shaking like the air's too thin
and I can't breathe
-skin shedding like a boa,
so I kiss you in the vacant winter
Your lips have a taste I don't always remember
it being like this.
-This agonizing simplicity
we bite ourselves until blood
curls to the surface and
we cradle ourselves in one another's sweat.
Our silence swallowing passion
and our bodies fold together
-trapped in mirrors we quiver.

Maybe someday you'll buy me orchids
instead of saying 'I love you.'
And I'll still hold you in an insomniac's grip-
your fingertips breaking in the sunrise.
("stop loving so fiercely.")
I'll try to trust your steadfast gaze.
But I'm always hungry
always aching to be set against
a backdrop of deep-blue, slow-moving stars.

And there's this tightness in my chest
like the space
between my ribs
and my breasts
has been stuffed with orchids and I'm walking lightheaded
pockets full of earth
and your fingertips slipping over my imperfections
(unconscious and uncertain)
are reassuring
but not too reassuring.
Like broken limbs, dry and cauterized with burning spiders' webs.

We are crawling under bookcases looking for an escape,
arms full of orchids
we are weighed down by beauty.

Birds © 2012 Calgary Spoken Word Society