Poetry by Erin Lynn

Lilith Across America

You were the black jewel of Odessa
before it burned. War moved you

westward onto Ohio’s highway’s dust
where you slept on carpet

in the clapboard houses of Columbus,
underinsulated, until you learned

to fill your pitcher with sunflowers
in September, their black eyes staring

back at you in mercy.
Seaweed roped your dream hair

dragged you east, up and down
the jagged coastline where the Atlantic

feeds on soil. You caught me midway
struck me sepia, made beautiful

by your hand. But the clean
yards of Long Island mailed you north

to Maine. Cracking cockle on open schist,
you fix your own supper.

Lilith, half fish, you were first on earth.
Bare feet and bare hands: no one’s woman.


Erin Lynn is a PhD. student in Poetry at UConn where she also teaches Freshman English. She holds and MA in Irish writing from Queen's University, Belfast and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. Erin edits "This Morning" for Coldfront Magazine and co-curates Poor Mouth Poetry reading series in the Bronx. She lives in New York with her partner and their dog Wallace. 

Kristi DiLallo1 Comment