Gingerbread House Lit Mag


In my dreams,
wolves talk to me,
as they turn

into other wolves.

Before my eyes,
they slip their skin off,
change form.

There is always one
who becomes

my mother and one
who becomes my father.


It feels like a hundred
years since I spoke to you

on the phone.
I remember the crack

of the line, and your
voice when you said goodbye.


I go into the night water
looking for the other end

of the string
that used to run from
my belly to your heart.


The bees won’t sting
as you approach, but they
whisper messages

in a chain,

so the dead feel
like they’re still alive.

Erin Carlyle

Erin Carlyle is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poetry often explores the connections between poverty, place, and girlhood, and can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Ruminate, and Prairie Schooner. Her debut full-length collection, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld, is out now on Driftwood Press. She is currently pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing at Georgia State University. 

Artwork: Chie Yoshii, Voice Afar




This entry was published on January 31, 2022 at 12:08 am and is filed under 49 (January 2022), Current Issue, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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