Take Notes on Everything
by Erin Little
Half-light, but radiantly.
A pool is defined by
its limitations.
Loss of periphery,
loss of the side-body,
a permanent upward gaze.
Furtive steps into morning
with jasmine on the breeze.
Mirror blues a ripple
on the surface,
how we communicate.
Not one damned cloud
in the way-up there.
Let the walls hug, let
them protect. Let
mother contain you
for now: without her
you’d be evaporated
into the jasmine bush.
Mother gives shape
to your wildness.
Thank her–
Mother potted you
so the only way
to grow is up.
A pool is defined by
its limitations.
Loss of periphery,
loss of the side-body,
a permanent upward gaze.
Furtive steps into morning
with jasmine on the breeze.
Mirror blues a ripple
on the surface,
how we communicate.
Not one damned cloud
in the way-up there.
Let the walls hug, let
them protect. Let
mother contain you
for now: without her
you’d be evaporated
into the jasmine bush.
Mother gives shape
to your wildness.
Thank her–
Mother potted you
so the only way
to grow is up.
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Erin Little is a writer and editor originally from Dallas, TX. She is an MFA candidate at LSU where she has served as editor-in-chief of the New Delta Review. Previously, she was as an editorial assistant at Penguin Random House. Her poems have appeared in Chestnut Review, HAD, Prelude, and The Shore. Find her online at eringlittle.com.
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