Art & Poetry By Emily Corwin

abecedarian with sexual tension

are you running to someplace that
beckons you? in the wild yonder, where I

crackle, the lungs of me blooming silver in the
dimness, riverbed gone out. should we meet then at

evening? under coxcomb and swollen,
filled with asking for each other, asking whether

goodness can be taught, whether this is right. and
how do you heal yourself, my dear?

I remember what you are—scab, totem,
juniper on the side of this house. do you make me

kind? would you like to reach between my doors—
lurid as a milksnake? I break every promise

made once to myself, in the darkening, dark
now, and my blackberries are burnt. I put fire

on the table, the rosewood made soft and
pinkish. I long to be among your

quiet plants, your neck unclothed, your wrist and
rhubarb, the red thorny vine coiling,

smoked in you—a heat that pulls, dragging anyone
toward it, toward being raptured,

unmade by your finger tips, undone my ribs,
vertebrae—scraped, used like a

whetstone. it is scary, to live like this, under the
x-ray machines, everything visible in my

young chest—a threshold. enter me between a
zillion bright rooms, all at once hushing.

Originally published at Noble / Gas Qtrly



she wakes     rise and shine
in the queen’s anne lace

      girl in lingerie and choke-cherries
      girl silky for touches         in the meadow
      her antlers budding velvet  

            no four-chambered heart
            just an heirloom tomato.

girl with a bellyache—thorn stuck
above her pubic bone
                       she didn’t go down easy

      girl with a pretty mouth hole—she ought to run now
      from the bad thing lurking              run into the bark moss
                                                       milkweed and screech        

she best be on her way
      hurry up now, sweetie
            pack up your money, your hard bread

      the meadow rustling, awake
      girl with a home to get home to
      before the day’s dark      girl with a head start
                                                     tomato heart aflutter.

Originally published at Rust + Moth


wooded ephemeral

alone with you in a phone call, on this fallen planet,
broken meadow I make aglow like bruise—a loud

contusion. when it comes to you & I—embracing, magnetic,
almost in danger—I cannot even, cannot think. like an

evergreen in the middle of anywhere, the trunk axed, I always
flinch at you. my scabs leak & become brittle. between us—a

glitch, error message, a sugar. I think you are so honey,
honeycrisp as the apples in my cheeks, skin I try to make more

illumined, radiant for the party. do you like this cocktail dress?
jacquard, rhinestone, ruched—one that I could wear for the occasion,

kissing you under the bower. I would like to keep you sheltered, warmly
like a spore. don’t go away over the phone. I need support & service for

my feelings, need ravishing now more than ever, geraniums
now more than ever, something soft & redolent to

obsess you, to catch your heart over. I collect the green needles, the
pines are molting. I feel molten like a fragment of coal fire, so

quickly scattered there in the soil, the particulate brown & saturated.
remember the not-so-long ago—this wilted corset, this corsage

tight, once erotic to me. you live now only in the messages, digital—
until some future hour to make ours, thrashing together

wherever insects are abundant, two maws sucking out the
xylem vessels from the leaves, rucking our good clothing.

you have such a beautiful skull in there—I long to peel you back, un-
zipper these body glands, warm my hands in your liquid, dazzling.

Originally published at Grimoire



I use my phone as a mirror. I have zero likes. I like
mud-rose & jewelweed & you. you left my body cells

astonished. I am missing you something fierce in these
greenfields & oil fields & fields of scary love I do not like.

such a long way from this little while together. with you,
it is a presence or absence of claws—your hands that might

injure. desire holds me like a knife. what do you want me to
say to that? you say back. I research what larger animals are

most likely to kill me in the surrounding areas—most likely
horse or dog—& you think my hair is alive & it is. I get so

impossible with emotion, blighted, startled like a starling.
I order the latest version of a cave—tight, dripping—where

I can disappear into. I remember we enjoyed getting down
low in the bull thistle, downloading each other. you sent:

remember this? in your message request. the attachment
failed to load, inside the glow screen, silken.

Originally published at Grimoire


Emily Corwin is an MFA candidate in poetry at Indiana University-Bloomington and the former Poetry Editor for Indiana Review. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Day One, Hobart, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, THRUSH, and elsewhere. She has two chapbooks, My Tall Handsome (Brain Mill Press) and darkling (Platypus Press) which were published in 2016. Her first full-length collection, tenderling is forthcoming in 2018 from Stalking Horse Press. You can follow her online at @exitlessblue.