written by Erin Wilson
My husband traces the arch beneath my eye,
beautifully honed horizon field, zygomatic bone.
(Did you know the zygomatic bone articulates with the temporal bone?)
My sight twitches near his thumb
(which houses the whorls of his particular quirk)
like an anxious bird
taking in, but predominantly wanting more.
It seems fair to say — here lies the fleshed-out ruby organ of desire.
As he moves his thumb along the curve,
I feel, reflected in my body
the same kind of curve,
the crests of ilium.
In the cradle, between ilium wings, rests emptiness like an egg
(scent like sperm).
Ilium: flank bone, pelvic girdle,
Erin Wilson‘s poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in Poetry Ireland Review, Kestrel, A Journal of Literature and Art, The American Journal of Poetry, Juked, The Adirondack Review, Storm Cellar, On the Seawall, Natural Bridge, among others. Her first collection, At Home with Disquiet, is due out in the spring of 2020 with Circling Rivers. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario, Canada.