🏆 Nominated for Best of the Net 2023
When daddy went to the moon,
I sat quietly at home, moonless.
I thought to myself: I’d eat it all,
and the crust of the earth,
if I wanted to. I don’t care about
mapping that cold. I already know
what’s there all gray scale
and massive. My father once
handed me a map. It had a key
made of little raised markings—broken
beer bottles, but no way to land
on the moon. There was just
the impression of that old county
line we’d cross over and a hint
of the old milkweed in the air.
Erin Carlyle is a poet whose roots are in the American South. Her work has been featured in literary magazines such as New South, Tupelo Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. She won the annual Driftwood Press Poetry Manuscript Contest, and her debut full-length book of poetry, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld is out now. Currently she lives in Atlanta, Georgia and is pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing at Georgia State University.
Artwork by Gabriela Knutson