This is red clay sensitivity: Sara Beth picks
bur marigolds from her hair and whispers
he loves me, he loves me not. Too much time
spent worrying what boys think will
melt clocks. But if you make friends
with a guitarist, your watches will never
Sara Beth walks barefoot to the door,
opens it for someone who will never come.
I am serenity. You are clandestine.
Sara Beth is the sugar in the cabinet.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds because
not all grief is finite. Neither is the amount
of sugar crystals in the cabinet.
The air is so thick it slithers across
Sara Beth’s skin. It’s suffocating.
Her hands are full of cypress. Lightning
etches sand into glass & blood
doesn’t always clot like you plan.
Sometimes, it even gets confused
for cooking oil. You aren’t always
what you eat but you are everything you drink.
I’ve got words in my cheeks
I utter us all into this poem:
bur marigolds, cypress,
blood & all.
I wish I knew how to set everybody free.
Poem 22 of 30