Sara is a poet.
Blood
There is a particular cruelty
in the coming and going
of the monthly curse
in the heart of the barren.
A punishment
of gore and pain
to remind me of my body’s
inhospitable nature
and all its emptiness.
A never failing arrival,
always on time
like the train,
but still a shock,
like stumbling upon
a crime scene.
I’ll never make peace with it.
Super Sargasso
My left AirPod lives
in the Super Sargasso Sea,
the place where all lost things go,
and occasionally return from,
but really rather rarely,
so I might as well quit looking.
I fall asleep to the sound
of people’s voices,
telling other people’s stories,
to quiet the racing mind
that is desperate
to tell my own.
In dreams, I thrash and fight,
cajole and argue,
demand my dignity
and her attention:
How dare you,
how dare you,
how dare you?
And in the morning light,
my left AirPod
lies alone and quiet
on the 71 year old floors,
waiting to be swatted and batted
across them
by a black and white cat named Domino.
When I am 71 years old,
will I have wrung out
my stories enough
to fall asleep to just the sound
of my husband breathing?
Will I have spoken my words
with eyes wide open,
in enough of the right rooms,
enough to let my family
sleep in peace?
Will my soul purr with contentment,
sand between my toes,
as the waves of the Super Sargasso Sea
wash away my regrets?
Skate Park Sunday
I heard a man’s voice
from across the new skate park:
“It’s a skater’s dream,
a canvas to paint your lines on!”
as I hold a stick of oil pastel
and attempt to capture
curves and hollows
and the way the shadows lengthen
in the afternoon sun.
The place is full
of kids on wheels: two and four,
trying it out alongside lifelong skaters
who are being so patient
because we’re all new here –
I mean, the paint on the mural’s
still wet and the rattle of a spray paint can
echoes through the concrete valleys.
It’s good to be here,
in this vision of community future
that Danielle had,
the place we watched grow from the ground
and get poured from spinning trucks.
Now everyone’s wheels turn
and we all fly:
the tiny dude in the spiked helmet,
the girl in the hijab,
the tall guy in vans –
and me with my sketchbook,
letting my spirits be lightened.