The Irish Sweepstakes

By Sarah Felder

Snow now is only means of weathered
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


About the Author

sarah felder profile picMy 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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *