SARAH BARTLETT


BEING UNHORSED VS. BEING UNSADDLED

There is a white horse
somewhere without you
or you are the white horse
somewhere with nothing
to carry. Everyday the farmer
trucks out bails of hay
and everyday you are not
wild. Everyday you are
a circle of ice. Everyday
an absence louder than
the pounding of hooves.
The ground shakes
w/ it–you are not imagining
the metamorphosis.
Your body a deliverance,
a discard pile, an outreach
program, separation science.
You want to hear someone
say “that’s the one I want.”
You are standing by yourself.
Every morning you are on
the opposite side of the fence.
You don’t know how it happened,
you just know it’s happening.
If only it would snow and there
were time to catalog everything
that stayed the same.
 
 
 
 
ST. AUGUSTINE’S LOST ENTRY

I look up how to spell “moustache”
and then look at fake moustaches online.
As I age my desires start to feel less unusual.
Now I dream I am mobbed by the desert–
I lie so still that rattlesnakes sleep on my chest.
When I wake-up, I feel much emptier.
I levitate in the shower. Crows are making
death cries, so I check the trunk of my car
before I go anywhere in case I’m being framed.
The heat is intransigent, scrapes my face
w/ its stubbled chin. This is intensely arousing.
Summer you Goose. I’ve got your eggs
in my pocket and I promise not to break them.
 
 
 
 



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