selected works by Erin Morgan

first fall.

choke on every hymn

the shattered glass glistening

where is the arrow?

where is the bow?

the sun is sanctuary

doesn’t mean it doesn’t burn

it burns to yearn

it slips out under a stuffy shirt

and is sick all over silk

angels aren’t meant to fly

there’s a cost to be kind.

following footsteps

scared in the dark of wood

catch the throat

catch it cold

hold it tightly and never let go

good morning little dove

the love song sobs

the moon is gone

where did you go?

it’s the curse of flying

it burns!

it burns,

it burns.

To the Tops of the Trees.

On a path, one not unlike those that wind through the ground as ants find their haven, I tripped.

It was not a pleasant thing, the slippery leaves that marked the beginnings of autumn marred the path. Still, I walked on, biting against the embarrassment that warmed my cheeks.

Small eyes met mine, belonging to that of a small girl wearing warm clothes, ones that would make any other person sweat in the sun. She fumbled in the grass. Her mother and I gave a small laugh. The girl jumped back up.

The laugh carried on the wind, winnowing into the girl’s ears and then to mine. I smiled. We stumbled all the same, but my cheeks were flushed in shame. Under the small white hat, hers are flushed with joy.

I found a bench to sit on; An old rickety thing that creaked as I settled. I ran my fingers across the grooves, decades of memory battered into the wood. I am quiet as I sit, as most adults are when taking a moment of peace. That is what I’ve decided this is; A moment of peace.

The slightly chilled breeze of transitioning seasons brushes against my cheek running its playful fingers through my hair. A leaf spirals down onto the path, graceful in its dance. I watch the myriad of autumn's colors dance together, the very mosaic that caused my feet to fumble.

The girl leaps from her mother's lap, and back towards me. The fallen leaf finds its way into her grasp as she waves it in the air triumphantly.

She is young. She is so young that even the leaf smiles at her play.

The clouds part, a small ray of God-kissed light landing on the patch of trodden grass where the girl has begun to dance. A song rises from her lips, singing “You are my sunshine, My only sunshine.”

Her mother joins, completing the duet as the ray begins to grow, as if growing to encompass the berth of happiness that comes from the tune.

The wind begins to laugh as well, taking the grass up in its joyful dance. The warmth has fallen on my leg now, warming the cold that had settled in the shade. She grabs another leaf, and though they don’t know all the steps, the trees join the dance.

She fell a minute later.

Oh! I shot to my feet in an instant, ready to collect the girl and hush her so that the dance may never end. A wail cut across the air, though quieted quickly.

The joy was over, a mother no longer smiling as effortlessly. They still smiled, but the grass lost its rhythm, and the sun disappeared.

She is still young but we are five minutes older.

Seeds are not meant for harvesters.

I am a girl raised not so different from boys

every delicate touch never returned

all words yelled so they could be heard

every time we played, it was never with my toys.

everything gentle and soft and small

crumbled in my mud clad hands

there was no quiet to be found in the band

and screams just echoed up the wall

books were where I escaped to think

where I learned of things like lace

its where I learned that life isn’t fair

until my brother decided to rip out the page

there is an unspoken rule among women

that the fruit is the portrait of a girl

that women treat it gently, men leave it ripped

and bleeding, it makes me want to hurl.

She took it as a promise

He gave it as a gift

She thinks it’s love

He finds it bliss

today, I opened a pomegranate, sweet

small and tangy, as all fruits should be

as much as I tried to eat it with gentle ease

my fingers still bleed

I tried to be gentle

I really did

but seeds are not meant for harvesters

I’m no better than him.

Erin Morgan is a freshman Honors English and Physics student at the University of Delaware, music composer, pianist, and an aspiring author.  Inspired by modern literature blending with classic wordplay and lyrical cadence, she is currently working on her first full length novels after years of practicing the craft of short stories, and hopes to never stop telling stories. In addition to writing, she also finds joy in music composition and songwriting, and loves to let musicality influence her writing, and vice versa. Instagram: @erin_writes_things