The stoic subliminal
By Marit Ericson


We, the hill, go
up like tripping
up a sloping
up:

A clumsy carrying,
this brick-like wave becoming.

This salt and metal tang and heave,
tang and heave, salt and metal…

      (This singe of chalk and raw and red,
      a pock on waited state
      and bough,
      and break...)

and drop.

I need a pause.

A rest note,
no music but sound—

     ("bird, bird…")

Then.

Ask for,
a cause—

     a wind, blue—

and pick us up

Marit Ericson was born in Massachusetts and recently graduated from West Virginia University with a B.A. in English. She currently lives in New Jersey.

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