Erik Carlsen lives in Tacoma, Washington with the ghost of a dog named Duke. He's one of those awful people who always talk about riding their Peloton, but he's trying to stop. He collects books on intimacy, and sleeps with a handful of ball bearings every night. He is elated to be read.
ON VACATION
ERIK CARLSEN
A baby’s pacifier sitting
On the edge of an ashtray
An old woman who removed
Her own gold filling to see
That tooth one last time
Salivating blood into the sink
Trying to remember
Which side of her mouth
It came from
Five orphaned boys
Lighting a cat on fire
In the early afternoon
With no consequences
Onions and potatoes shoved
In a chain link fence, a crow
Has an onion in its talons,
And is flapping wildly
An ancient man taking
A bag of vitamins through
Airport security and not minding
The inevitable strip search
A young woman on a crowded train
Sitting on your lap not because she wants to
At the edge of the lake there is a man
With a guitar in his hand and a rabbit
Under his arm. He blesses me with his free hand,
The rabbit sniffs the breeze, watches the sand.
A dozen candles lit in a circle
Around a shrine to an idol
In the crosswalk. Two crossed swords,
Animal blood, chicken feathers.