by Sara Renee Marshall
$5
Every morning, I come into my kitchen
or this kitchen wears the ghosts of yours
I calibrate at the stove—the scene sucked
furtively toward a field usurped by a pinhole
I move my head back and forth and inhale
cautiously. I want to shake the house
out of the air, open somewhere greener
There’s the grainy picture we make with words
and the picture hovering, ambient as arms
I’m made there, hand-guided into the day
If I rewind, I risk. I revive the same
little death. As if new light alive
on the wall doesn’t deliver enough cruelty
published in Ottawa by above/ground press
March 2018
celebrating twenty-five years of above/ground press
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy
Sara Renee Marshall hails from the queen city of the plains, Denver, Colorado. Her writing has appeared in Poor Claudia, Colorado Review, OmniVerse, jubilat, dusie, in chapbooks, and elsewhere. She holds a degree in Political Science and an MFA in Poetry, both from University of Colorado. Sara is now completing a PhD at University of Georgia. With Thomas and Rosa Bernadette, she lives and writes in Atlanta.
To order, send cheques (add $1 for postage; outside Canada, add $2) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9 or paypal at www.robmclennan.blogspot.com
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