Sarah Sorenson


Your air is everywhere --
this rooftop tar, molten under sun,
red under devil coal that
spits and screams, yes.

And nothing more mountainous
could handle such a sky,
so filled with hate and stars,
such a winking blackness;
it's a sky within a sky.

You're the ruthless lull in the middle,
the arm, the leg, the wink of eyelash
catching in the corner of my
left eye.

This is stagnation.
This is bliss.
This is a winter within April.
This is a red, a deep, dark red --

And for this:
a straight scar, a stiff spine,
a dead weight, a broken arm,
a medal for being so brave
an embrace for being so solid.

Nothing but praise for you,
nothing but the crust of sleep,
this is a dead rest.

Publications: Stirring, etc.

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