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  • Trash Birds

    Don’t call them trash birds,
    Granny always said while she walked
    towards Walmart and watched the flock
    circle and swoop from the neon sign
    to the parked cars to the discarded
    French fries and spilled milk shakes.
    We don’t mock one of God’s creatures
    for doing what they were designed to do.

    I can’t count the names thrown my way,
    can’t count the ways they have all crumpled
    and collected against my ribs
    and throat like pieces of garbage
    flung from a speeding car on I-64:
    too much, not enough, slut, crazy, needy,
    attention-seeking, a waste of time, bitch,
    not good enough, unfit
    to name a few.

    So, I never call them trash birds.
    I call them by their proper name
    and watch with delight when they take flight
    as one dancing phantom,
    dark against the fiery October sky.

    In my dreams, each grackle in the plague
    settles on my shoulders and picks up a name,
    swallows it down, unhurt and nourished –
    doing what they were designed to do.

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  • Dear March,

    I spent the month of Love
    coughing and spitting and praying
    the weather would stop changing.

    Every time it does (hot to cold, cold to hot),
    my body decides to fill my sinuses with snot
    and then tries everything in its power
    to keep me from getting said snot out.

    And I’m left to snort olbas oil up my nose,
    prop myself up on cold meds, mouth breathe,
    and take a covid test at least twice a week.

    There were some bright spots:
    my boys took care of me
    and put all those ‘independent living’
    lessons to good use,
    the daffodils bloomed and then promptly shivered
    in the rain and the snow,
    I ate food that nourished as well as comforted me
    and I didn’t worry about a single calorie.

    I do worry we are being fooled by these early warm days
    and a second winter will wrap
    its icy claws around us when you come to call.

    Is it global warming?
    Does Mother Earth need to lay off the sauce?
    Is it just par for the course in these changing days?
    Whatever it is,
    my sinuses need relief. So much relief.

    So, if at all possible, could you get it together
    and stick to gradually increasing the temperatures
    instead of swinging wildly between winter and late spring?
    Pretty please, you beautiful lionlamb?

    Sincerely,
    Sarah

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  • Wisdom

    The old three-eyed crow
    sees the dancing stars alight
    in laughing branches
    and wonders if she should fly
    beak-first towards the coming storm.

    Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com
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  • Summer Tomatoes

    Slicing summer tomatoes in a sleepy kitchen,
    she hummed something that could
    have been a hundred years old
    or a song that played last night on the radio.
    Golden waves obscured her face,
    and I couldn’t see the smile I knew was there.
    Couldn’t see the way her lips turned down
    at the corners in delightful, exquisite mischief.

    Dripping fingers arranged thick slices
    on a plate too formal for this moment,
    the crunch of salt and pepper grinders
    breaking the silent, ardent air.

    When she tipped her head back, popped
    a ruby half-slice between her kiss-swollen lips
    I couldn’t help but make my way to her.
    I caught her smile then, a laughing look that said
    every word my heart needed, and then some.
    Soft curves fit against all my angles
    and I wanted summer tomatoes,
    the press of her warm, sleep-quiet body against mine
    for the rest of my life.

    Photo by Any Lane on Pexels.com
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  • Goldenrod and Ironweed

    Why are you crying, my love?

    She wiped her eyes,
    sniffled her nose,
    and lifted her gaze to the window
    above the sink.

    The goldenrod and ironweed are blooming,
    she said, slipping her hands into soapy water.
    The earth is settling her melancholy
    deep into my bones,
    unfurling her funeral flowers alongside
    roads and in the low, wet places of the hills,
    one last majestic sight
    before fading into rust and gold.

    One last burst of color to hold
    during the long, bleak of winter.

    That is the most poetic way I have ever heard
    anyone describe their allergies, my love.

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  • Hello and Welcome!

    I’ve had my fair share of blogs over the course of the internet (all of which are shut down for various, private reasons), but I felt like maybe I should have a central place for all my poetry things.

    I plan to use this space to post poems, update you all on what is happening with the release of my upcoming chapbook (pinch me now…the book will be in your hands this time next year), and maybe a few ramblings of whatever comes to mind. Maybe. Don’t expect anything regular and we’ll all be happy.

    Anyway, thanks for coming along with me. It’s going to be something.