Erin Kirsh

Erin Kirsh


Mick, we are in a swamp.
Bullrush baited, thick
in the thicket, vibrant
and violent. We don't
kiss here either.
It doesn't matter
that you aren't there
when I wake up
my body is no longer
a hummingbird
I am a brackish mosquito
muddled as usual.


When I was 15, my best
friend gave me a dream
dictionary for my birthday.
It was long and blue
as sleep.

I lost it when I moved
to the mountains.
I have been dizzy
ever since, have
unlearned symbolism
the way I've forgotten
how to read
music, my sun bleached
dreams are one hit wonders.


This time we're perched
like swallows
on high school rafters.
Beneath our dangling feet,
students run
laps in red shorts. You smile
Huck Finnish; our teeth
trade secrets.


There is no book
I need to consult.

I know you
are a bad idea

know this
in my sleep

but keep road

a potholed subconscious
with you anyway. I know

better. Should know better.
Should know better in my sleep.

Erin Kirsh is an arts organizer, bookseller, publishing professional, and award-winning writer from Toronto. Visit her at or follow her on twitter @kirshwords.
"Interpreters" is in Short Circuit #10, Short Édition's quarterly review.
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