Sunday, August 09, 2009

Nicole Wilson

DASH, CHURN



Mother knows each day’s a face


halved like the planet of a weather report;


she can tell the operator “I like


your telephone voice, I like your dimes


and radios.” Her plane crash is a birth


or a building or stuck levers


or a chord composing to house


all those vertical bodies


unpeeling themselves, and the division


sign she etches on top of the table


is about hands missing


hands missing


a groom. Lungs breathe


the shape of flesh pins and whiskers


like a carousel coming loose.




Nicole Wilson's poems have appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Emprise Review, Babel Fruit, Rabbit Light Movies, and Coconut, among others. She works and teaches at Columbia College Chicago where she received her MFA.