Inventions Pt 91
I invent a machine
that grows flowers
for funerals.
You flip the switch.
No one survives.
You try to flip it back,
but it's stuck, bloom
after bloom. A god
rippling through a cosmos.
It is how we all started
praying to you.
Inventions Pt 87
I invent a way to hold hands
with everyone you love all at once.
The pressure's too much.
The pressure's too much.
When it's on, you're crushed
endlessly in a tragic laughing
accident.
Six or So Inches from My Chest
You notice how the dark
makes you invisible to yourself.
Six inches or so is the distance
from your hand to your chest
but there's no way to find it.
You touch and touch
and nothing.
Funny, how there's so much
to lose inside of your skin.
You peel it away and
everything escapes.
You look out for a moment
and forget the way back.
William Erickson took degrees in English and digital arts from Washington State University after many years in the trades. His poetry can be found in BlazeVOX Journal, The Adirondack Review, 34th Parallel Mag, and numerous others. He lives in the Portland area with his wife and two rescue dogs.
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