Author Archives: Sarah Stoltzfus Allen

Mother. Poet. Human. Tea Drinker.

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.

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

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

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.

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.