A Heated House (and other poems)

a heated house

she walks in laughing
room to room, a ghost of
her own making.
there are twelve empty tallboys

there are twelve hollow tall men
they are all existing off each other,
your eyes shine at me.
+++the sun mimics you
in heat.
+++in heat is your body against mine
we lack a purpose yet to exist
+++you against me
+++i against you
the pillowcase smells of your sweat
+++and my sweat and her sweat.


holding dirt

i mourn who i have been,
will be,
could have been most
of all.

i am dirt mixed with salt.
nothing grows from me.

you have only loved me
in the sun when i am

in the shade.

reflections in a tottenham august

six am, a rave in Tottenham
there are lines of something
that tastes like tylenol /
we are all carrying grief
like it is light
but we are just accustomed
to four am reachings /
i am always reaching for solidity
the bumping of your teeth
against my teeth / break my teeth
the red of my mouth spilling
into the dark of your mouth /
i have never loved bruises the
way i love your bruises / on my
jaw there is a dark spot you gave
me / inside of me i carry you in my
cunt / the only protection and warmth
i have left in me / to carry / i invite you
in /


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Erin Taylor is a Tulsa-based writer who is always somewhere else. She has a chapbook OOOO (Bottlecap 2016). Her writing can be found at and she is always available @erinisaway