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Tear the Envelope Twice

poetry by E. Kristin Anderson

poetry by E. Kristin Anderson

Tear the Envelope Twice

(a golden shovel after Kesha)


You know the ash that salts my bones in this house; I’m

the pact you made with winter, the danger still dancing


as if cathedral bells aren’t buried here. Crawl down with

the dirt in your hands, the foxglove in your mouth, tears


like another hurricane in the Gulf: expected. And now in

the floorboards lavender grows stubborn—taller than my


Misery. Here’s an entire apiary looming, these bees in my eyes—

we run from angels, forget that roads matter, hot asphalt just


another way to fold us into etiquette, to hold us fighting

feathers and sinews, sticks and stones. Here is reason to


call for the moon, if ever there was one. Come and get

your backpack. Fill it heavy with apples all shot through


with yesterday’s arrows, somber. Together we consume the

fruit, sticky running down our chins, lips soft in the night.

eager to run, older

poetry by E. Kristin Anderson

eager to run, older

with my mouth open I remember how to answer the door //

a great big bruise three days later, yellow-green // pray like  the mystified time // a whole hell over my head, deep inside  the day // until the sun went down // the tea of outside  things // even though I sometimes cried in the dark // I  always thought trouble started pretty, that little time of quiet

// the TV sort of remembered // I was coldness before the  blood // this story a church // maybe I was dangerous //  close to tender-hearted // ran up against the engine of burned summer // like ambrosia, that kind of girl // left  home // a daughter lost at thirteen // I’d eat the end of  September before I saw a lie // push hard between us //  pretty // spin trouble with questions // a jar of nitroglycerine

This is an erasure poem. Source material: King, Stephen. Dolores Claiborne. New York: Pocket, 1993. 96-105. Print.

a little breeze, my voice

poetry by E. Kristin Anderson

a little breeze, my voice

I turned my eye to the hatchet // took the madder skull, even the gleam of blood // inside I think fears work for love //  dead and wide open // ugly things scraped from the last minute of normal //  my mouth a year of Sundays // pale and whole // the thunder damned to the night // I shoved minutes down // little cat hardly shy // a promise like fishes // too late for a hornet’s nest to see my mind // a tangle of blackberry bushes // a big white thorn //  half-moon risen  // just as cold // I don’t dare to count on death //nasty, the  hope I put down on my shoulder // to cry that way // a girl  in my throat

This is an erasure poem. Source material: King, Stephen. Dolores Claiborne. New York: Pocket, 1993. 140-150. Print.


E. Kristin Anderson 

E. Kristin Anderson is a poet, Starbucks connoisseur, and glitter enthusiast living in Austin, Texas. She is the editor of Come as You Are, an anthology of writing on 90s pop culture (Anomalous Press), and Hysteria: Writing the female body (Sable Books, forthcoming).  Kristin is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry including A Guide for the Practical Abductee (Red Bird Chapbooks), Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press), Fire in the Sky (Grey Book Press), 17 seventeen XVII (Grey Book Press), and Behind, All You’ve Got (Semiperfect Press, forthcoming). Kristin is an assistant poetry editor at The Boiler and an editorial assistant at Sugared Water. Once upon a time she worked nights at The New Yorker. Find her online at and on twitter at @ek_anderson.

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