Brother, your body
is a spit-pig,
a split trunk
of light-struck oak.
They will quarter
your meat, deny
you Styx.
In coinless eyes
I’ve seen the thugs
who come to stuff
themselves in
our scared spaces,
the waves of
snails that stick
horrible
to our shores.
My tongue tied
with limestone,
I cannot stop it.
Spoiled long
before a spoil of war.
Erin Lynn is working toward a PhD in Poetry at U Conn where she also teaches freshman English. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University and an MA in Irish Literature from Queen’s University, Belfast. She is an editor for the “This Morning” column at Coldfront Magazine and co-curates Poor Mouth Poetry reading series in the Bronx.
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