By Sarah Felder
Snow now is only means of weathered
transport:
Sleep in hinged places just so I can
See the bricked fire char and breathe,
Lighting the burgundy flooring.
I wrote this letter a generation ago;
When all those lit Augusts were
Nothing but spruce, spurs, spinning
And growing up and over on the
Chain- link.
I wasn’t in the light then because
I didn’t understand the destiny of being
Born in the first place:
I hadn’t re-taught my youngdom
To begin again.
I contemplate your breathing beats,
What they were when I was young:
The flaws in our own ticking machines,
My dinner to the floor, rocking my knees
To the sound of the television:
Toxins pool in your ducts,
And the sounds of ducks quaking for
Bread-crumbs was always celebration, to
Every cicada we saw drop and every
Dragonfly that hovered at your veined feet;
Rose like a song he sings in weighted sleep,
Rose, he sings like a long hymn. THE WAY
SHE TWISTS HER FACE WHEN SHE HEARS
SOMETHING IMPOSSIBLE.
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About the Author
My name is Sarah Felder, I am from Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. I am finishing up my degree here at APU this spring. I am inspired by nature, nostalgia, and the passing of time. I love contemporary poetry, but read all genres from all times and places. Some of my favorite poets include, Elizabeth Bishop, Ezra Pound, Stephen Dobyns, and Sharon Olds.
