You speak of Seattle,

branches of water

all green and far away

as your eyes on the skyline.


You speak of gems

your shaking hands

aren’t equipped to hold,

shattering into

red sparks.


You speak of your breath

turning blue, of smoke puffs

and a tent without a flashlight.


You speak of a purple sunrise

where you kiss me, but I keep

pulling the blanket

over my face.





moss climbs up the gnarled oak tree

an echo of a red swing

and fingers too small

to wrap around daddy’s hand


somehow spring keeps coming

hot water poured too quickly

over tea bags


quiet sex

and the sound

of a chainsaw starting





Viewing the world

through a stolen cigarette,


the covers clamor

to capsize my feet

like the stomach of some

horrible creature.


Your pillow is a second face

in the dim light.





Your stubble against my raw cheek

makes me forget I’m finite,

nourishes like a tree growing

through earth, leaf green

against the breezy sky.


How does the medicine know

where to find the pain?

How do your hands know the certain spot

on my back that all tenderness

flows through? Prickling with magic.


Turning circles beneath a gray blanket,

you stamp my mouth with wet kisses.

My body knows how to find the gold.



Sarah Marchant



Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who organizes her dreams in her sleep and struggles with being fully present. Keep up with her work on Twitter at @apoetrybomb.


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