Erica Lewis

Erica’s poems “jukebox the ghost/spirit language”“the disquieting hum/of living history” through old pop 45s like a “phantom radio/of something real” spinning deep cuts in the AM waves “that good good old shit” “we forget/that space and time are folded and refolded” somewhere “between Saturday night juke and Sunday morning church”that Music of My Mind like a hangover cure “enjoying/how the wreckage /can take you home”“all naked and pink/lost in the morass of/do the best you can today” “disentangling one life/to give way to another/to options”“and let us be undone/gilding these sentiments with joy and awe” “imagining/the present is still tenuous/porous“” spiraling to something bigger”. In Erica’s hands, these earworms “are not kardashian worries””that Kmart shit”” we’ll all forget”, but “what the important language of speaking to each other/would sound like “Patti Smith, but with a little D’Angelo/like a spiritual sibling”“grieving, on edge/trying to make sure /you” “pour one out/in the wilderness”, “listen to the electricity/the music loves us so much”