Vanishing Lesson
If I fold myself, elbows to knees,
pack my frame tight as a tent,
will I learn to disappear? This morning
a lump on the side of the house
twitched at my approach, cracked
its wings to expose a wrinkled nose.
This morning she’s no bigger
than a walnut, but last night,
when I flicked the switch, she startled
into flight, swept the kitchen ceiling,
vast as a change in weather.
The two of us swirled soundless
until I turned the knob to open
the dark. One more tour of the room
and she disappeared, a master class
in silk-upholstered bones.
pack my frame tight as a tent,
will I learn to disappear? This morning
a lump on the side of the house
twitched at my approach, cracked
its wings to expose a wrinkled nose.
This morning she’s no bigger
than a walnut, but last night,
when I flicked the switch, she startled
into flight, swept the kitchen ceiling,
vast as a change in weather.
The two of us swirled soundless
until I turned the knob to open
the dark. One more tour of the room
and she disappeared, a master class
in silk-upholstered bones.
Fall 2026
Melody Wilson is a Pushcart nominated poet whose work appears in One, Nixes Mate, Anti-Heroin Chic, Crab Creek Review, Nelle, Rust and Moth, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. Her first collection, Madre Dura, received the Paul Nemser Prize from Lily Poetry Review. A graduate of Pacific University’s MFA program, she lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband Phillip and their dog Z.
Art: L. I. Henley
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art