ERIN CARLYLE

Southern Gothic Summer

            With lines from a Fear Street novel

 
What I remember most about that afternoon was the
shimmering scarlet and yellow of the sky—my eye

caught a glimpse of the body of a small
animal, a rodent, dead, and then I saw a snake

in the road just ahead of me. The Southern summer flashes
light in the sky and then I hear thunder just a few seconds later—time

to go home, time to turn around, find another snakeless
route. A tall, skinny black dog tied to a lamppost barked

at me as I passed. A roar escaped
his throat. His face dark, baring his teeth

like an animal, but I am an animal too, bare
feet hot on the pavement. I am an outside girl

meant to live and run, but this is not the woods where animals
should be, where men hunt with guns for sport

and food, their faces hidden, black masks,
wide-brimmed hats pulled low. In this neighborhood

there are men on porches watching
me play, watching me as I run. 

Mulholland Drive

She laughs looking
at lights, and even now, there’s still fire

in the canyons where wealthy
people live—hidden, behind

rock. She came there so full
of something, glittering plans,

but then her thread
was lost in destruction

of fire from a great distance
I once sat watching her

in my own diner, ordered coffee
and contemplated nothingness.

David gave me a blue key,
but I didn’t want to die early

baked in light and fire, fire

everywhere. I read a book
about the trees of California

Dearest David, there are more
than just the palm

lining the streets. Dearest David
I know now that I am a locked apartment,

a mystery like the girl.
I am hidden now behind a dumpster

and then spilled out
on the old, grey concrete.

Erin Carlyle is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her work can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Arts and Letters, Jet Fuel, and Prairie Schooner. Her second collection, Girl at the End of the World is out now with Driftwood Press.