Mary Wilson

Though split in two at such an early age, Sam grew up
in leaps long and fronted, and his one would quickly stumble to

forgive his other, though how Sam’s forgivability
had morphed into a “new word” none of us could say, Sam

with his fork inside the hand of dinner-table slip-ups was
not naturally a violent creature, blotting out the world according to

his other, Sam, the plum-shaped drops condensing on the table with
alarming speed, and some claimed that a column rose out

from the circle they surrounded. However
this forgivability was part of Samuel’s ability, his other

was the first to mutter this, and Sam heard in the night materials
like shards would give a shape to time to step

outside of, and he did, Sam, towing
myth and something bloodless as his other

split the day, and Sam, with all his best
intentions walked out into it.

Mary Wilson earned her MFA in Poetry from Brown University and is working towards a PhD in English at the University of California, Berkeley. Her poems have appeared in Everyday Genius, Gobbet, Sun’s Skeleton, and (occasionally) her blog: