Mary Wilson


The more specious bits of carbon on his shirt–front (Michael’s)
otherwise aglow with nothing (that is, clean) delivered Michael

from his need to state the proper shirts of things, which he admitted
(Michael) to his kids were varied—one of them in blue with specks

of yellow one of them in red beneath a picture of his father
(Michael’s) and the little one in diapers hugged the banister along the stairs

when Michael, suddenly with wings or he imagined leapt up
and absorbed the little one, the nervous-father Michael

in his arms and flushed and scolded, Michael
speaking in parental tones, which out of context may have sounded

like the clucking of a nervous mother, absent from the picture
(Michael’s) and by means of this heroic gesture, Michael

saved the little one from falling into colorless disaster
and his shirt–front (Michael’s) swelled with pride

Mary Wilson lives in Providence, Rhode Island, where she is working towards an MFA in Literary Arts at Brown University. Her poems have appeared in Gobbet, Digital Hamper and (occasionally) her blog:

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