Let me tell you about my friend
Sanderson. Well he’s dead,
but what’re you gonna do – the first ones died
in that Rapture of malfunctioned immunity.
My early dead read histories of women
his last six months.
You know how it is when you stand still in
Spring because a breeze is
teasing the green of light from trees?
Sarah. Sanderson said to me.
I admit I get real emotional. Sarah.
Let the weather support you.
What is it about white people?
A chunk missing here and there.
Don’t run your panties through
a hand-crank wringer.
Delicates need a special cycle and
color is just a metaphor.
In the great Pacific Northwest, sky
is every type of blanket shaken over you
every two hours. Sanderson,
in the way of the dead, goes on retreats
there in the still early stage of whatever-
afocusofmine as that here and now, this this,
their perfumed spring, those bills, gunshots,
a certificate of appreciation gotten kinda dusty
in its dime store frame – all enough diverting.
Oh yeah, did I mention?
He also said I don’t understand
why all the women don’t kill all the men.
So it took years for me to figure it out.
Of course I’m damaged and needing more from
my icon of grace on what to allow to support me.
Sarah Sarai lives in New York. Her poems have been published in Ascent, Yew, Thrush, Boston Review, Posit, PANK, and others. Her collection, The Future Is Happy (BlazeVOX), is available from Small Press Distribution.
This poem appeared in Main Street Rag in Spring 2008.