Sarah's Stairwell

Making Changes

2013-11-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

See my new website at SarahThursday.com!

The Keys, Canyon, and At Last, Dancing

2013-09-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

Your brown eyes must stop
breaking my tired heart
That cool you carry up
on your high shoulders
needs to be cracked
open like canyons on fire

My body is a cage that keeps me
from dancing with the one I love.

Your brown eyes must look
out of their cage-tower
That distance was down for
all those other offenders
but not for these green eyes
who never once broke your gaze
My limbs cannot pull out
farther across the canyon's edge

My body is a cage that keeps me
from dancing with the one I love.

Your brown eyes must turn
about face in this young lock
My keys are much too small
for your grown man's heart
My hands too raw to pull—
you must meet me half way

9-16-13

The Pull Back

2013-09-12T21:37:00.000-07:00

She's pulling the string
back behind her ear
pulling with fingers burnt
raw hands and broken nails
eyes tight like arrows
she's ready for your fight

Like two white checks,
opposites posed in a secrete game.

She holds her dress
between her knees
she's biting her tongue
licking back the sweat
soles grip the dirt
but she's ready for it
you give the word
she breaks the spell

Like two white checks,
opposites posed in a secrete game.

It's in her waist
the quiver full and heavy
and it's in the dip
of her soft elbow
she won't back down
you won't ask her to

Like two white checks,
opposites posed in a secrete game.

9-12-13

How He Is Not My Child

2013-08-10T12:59:00.000-07:00

I didn't stay up at the hospital until three a.m. waiting for the
doctors to assess the situation. I didn't have to be the one to
sign papers for the insurance company, for permission to treat,
for release of legal responsibility. I didn't have to field the
calls, protect him from his mother, sit next to him for hours
under the cold florescent lights of anger. I did not bare the
weight of pen on paper to surrender my flesh and blood to the
intervention of complete strangers. I am not the parent
deciding always how much to force him to wake up early, get
up out of bed, and live his life. Or how much to let him sleep,
let him fail classes, let him learn from his own mistakes like a
boy on the verge of adulthood. I didn't watch the labor of
sixteen years calling out from rooftops for men in uniforms to
pull him down, dress his wounds, search for more weapons.

8-10-13

Two Faces, Same Tool

2013-08-08T17:19:00.000-07:00

I.
It needs to be precise
a delicate claw to remove
the tiny splinters
pale under the skin
the outline like a shadow
from a lit window
It is going to be painful
as it aims at the pores
The grip must be strong
the movement must be swift
and the memory of the wound
can be forgotten

II.
She shapes them
with anger and spite
the growths between her eyes
She tells them who's boss
kills them like spiders
who eat all the flies
and balance the food chain
She will not apologize
for disguising her birth face
She pulls them out
one at a time
keeps the unruly ones
under control

8-8-13

Insomnia

2013-08-07T16:18:00.000-07:00

This insomnia lingers
going on two years
Not completely sleepless
more restless resistance
staying up too late
waking up too often

Not like at sixteen
sound asleep 'til noon
I could sleep through it all
earthquakes and rock bands
thundering rhythms
rocking me numb

Is it my age?
Is it all these life changes?
My mind like the skin of water
viscosity fragile
Was it falling in love
or being smacked down
out of the frame of it?

My mind opposes the need
for my body to sink into
the deep surrender of sleep
I've tried taking the pills
to fight its yank and tether
complying to silence

Maybe it's a goalless struggle
maybe it's a life much fuller
more to see, smell, and taste
more to hear, more to touch
Maybe it's all this re- and new discovering
possibilities lining up like fanatics
vying for my dreaming heart

8-7-13

Jelly Girls

2013-08-05T19:34:00.000-07:00

                In 1984, every girl
wore those jelly shoes.
Glitter plastic in pink
                and blue and yellow
seemed so frivolous.

                They hurt, they pinched,
gave no heel or arch support,
but still,
                I wanted them.

Flimsy buckles and basket-
                weave spilling toes out,
                leaving sharp red grooves
like a map for hours.

I wanted to be that frivolous,
                to squeeze the surface of
my nine year old feet, marking me
like every girl.

8-5-13

Lies To Tell My Body

2013-07-02T20:10:00.000-07:00

My bones are steel-heavy
as I walk the days with it
Pores on my skin ache
weighted by an iron-core earth
pulling me towards her
Down, she says, lay with me

My eyes can't see clear
turn skull-bound, sinking
pregnant with memory
The fibers in my muscles
weep at their loss of it
motion, forward, direction

The nuclei in my cells
pull and push against-toward
refusing to agree with you
Everyday, they keep forgetting
why I can't just dial the number
or drive 23 miles northwest

My arms know the exit-curves
(like the length of your limbs)
my feet know how many steps
(like the edge of your sheets)
I don't need my eyes to guide me
my hands, they know where

But my heart knows to stay
in my honey-thick atmosphere
Lock the windows and doors
breath it in, long breaths
circulating it, the new oxygen
Lie to my body, if need be until
I don't need to remember why

7-2-13

Appeared in Napalm and Novocain, September 12, 2013

Sharon as Segue

2013-06-15T01:04:00.000-07:00

We had a talk after our first real date
I used Sharon's Gold Cell as segue
I needed you to know
enough to understand
enough to get why
Before I shed my clothes
I had to untie those secrets
to lay them out across our laps
feet up on the coffee table
I had to look away as I always do
and tell you
how damaged I was
how broken my heart had been
before I ever saw it coming
how it wouldn't be personal
how it wouldn't be about you
how I carried this weight all my life
how I didn't know if I could rest it
and you sat stone quiet
arm across my shoulders
you kissed my hair
locking your knees under mine

6-15-13

Rejoice in My Anger and My Apathy

2013-06-09T16:24:00.000-07:00

Tiny creatures are living in my stomach
They are living off the lining, gnawing holes
They returned or were dormant for years
They remind me that I've held back too long
That I need to let more of it go
Pack that box, donate to charity
They burrow deep, clenching tight
They love my body in ways I never will
They are singing choruses in unison
They know my diet, my lack of vegetables
They know how many times I've cried
They love that, it feeds them
When I hold it in, when I stay awake
They rejoice in my anger and my apathy
They love not when I love and laugh
It dissolves them, it starves them
I do battle with them every single day
I count in to breathe and slow release
I lay my hands and rebuke them
I pray to their gods for forgiveness
They must soon sleep or migrate again

6-9-13

Box

2013-05-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

I'm going to get a box
big enough for all of it
Tales of the Thunderbolt Kid
and your copy of The Homecoming
with all the notes in the margins
(I nearly licked those words
off the edges of the book)
a collection of short stories
I never finished reading
I tried to love everything
you wanted me to like
like the album by Stars
with that song, "Ageless Beauty"
(I tried to know you in it
understand why you loved it)
Then I'll pack that t-shirt
soft grey, one of many
you probably never missed it
I'll fold it so it fits
next to all your other things
I won't leave a note
I'll just seal it up tight and
write your name outside
I'll drive it to the post office
and pay the postage myself
Then the box will go and
your books with your words
the damp smell of your apartment
(I'd stretch the pages to taste you)
It will all go and if I'm brave
there won't be a return address

5-22-13

Summer Drunk

2013-05-13T19:45:00.000-07:00

it's the heat, it reeks of his smell
the place under the collar of his shirt
and edges of his long sleeves

how the air was too thick for sleeping
how I was constantly intoxicated
with the hum of his voice

I laid in the green sun reading
his books, breathing his fingerprints
heart beats between text replies

the blue sky kissed my shoulders
and thighs, grass ceilings always
bracing my body from ascension

how I existed in the space before
you with me and without was
sleepwalking and summer drunk

the heat hung like a red cloud
on my back, on my heels and
here the earth comes back

to this place around the sun
to break my sobriety
again and again

5-13-13
Originally published in Lummox Journal (2), November 2013

My Mother Taught Me

2013-05-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

By direct or indirect means
things my mother taught me are

that makeup isn't that important
that shoes can often constrain you
warning signs can be challenges
and walls are meant for climbing

that authority must be questioned
that no one is really in charge here
elevator buttons must all be pushed
and puddles must be stepped in

that fancy restaurants are too serious
that dancing and singing heals the soul
school and work will still be around
even when you take the days off

that clothes are mostly functional
that limits are mostly imaginary
how pets are better than some humans
and the end is just around this corner

that children can still teach us things
that the emperor isn't wearing clothes
we make funny faces when we're angry
and to keep only things that lighten the load

5-12-13

Brown Eyed Boy (But Not a Boy)

2013-05-05T17:51:00.000-07:00

You strode in with shoulders
of a man so much taller,
your eyes held back with the tilt
of your head and chin up.

I tried to see you coming from behind
but I was looking for the wrong boy.
There was this guy—not a boy—not a man
but same brown eyes, same brown curls
(and growing). It was you, undeniably.
Your brows were long and circles
under your eyes were set hard.

I know that posture so well,
I've seen it my mirrors past
and in my angry generation.
But you—not you—not your brown eyes,
I have your face memorized like song,
I have loved every inch of it.

I hoped you'd never be familiar
with clenching fists, scraping skin,
bracing the beat of your heart
to stop it from hemorrhaging,
it will callus thick like cartilage.
Grit your teeth and stare them down
without flinching and unbolt the windows.

I have only seen you as a child,
my hand-holding boy in the back seat.
But here you sit, defiant smile,
refusing to play nice—I'm listening.
You now at sixteen, elbows out
tired of rolling with the tide.

You see none that qualifies, all their
smoke and mirrors don't fool us now.
We are all playing the part of the wizard,
but you're far too old for fairy tales.
I want to sing you to sleep, but you
are not six, you need more than lullabies.

You mapped the exits, found the weak hinges
(eventually, you'll see them everywhere).
I can't offer you shit, except how I get it,
I'll stop holding you to that promise
that you will invent that shrink-ray
and keep yourself a child for me.

5-5-13

Sonic Screwdriver

2013-05-02T16:02:00.000-07:00

I wish I had a sonic screwdriver
I wish I had a magic wand
I wish I had a time machine
or pixie dust or a book of spells

I wish I had a genie lamp
I wish I had the holy grail
I wish I had a flying carpet
or a portal or an Atlantis key

I wish you were three
in the back seat of my car
singing an 80s Cure song

I wish you were sixteen
driving with me to open mic
singing an 80s Cure song

I wish my love was enough
I wish you weren't there
I wish you and me were anywhere
far and away anywhere else

5-2-13

Viscosity

2013-04-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

Viscosity is the
resistance of fluid to
eventual deformation by

shear or tensile stress.
Viscosity is due to
friction of opposing

parcels of fluid at
varied velocities.
Pressure is needed to

overcome the friction between
the layers and keep the
fluid moving.

Viscosity depends on
the size, shape, and
attraction between

particles. For example,
honey has a higher
viscosity than water.

A fluid with no
resistance to stress is
known as ideal or

inviscid fluid. This
explains so much about
my life. Am I honey or

am I inviscid?

4-30-13

Appeared in Pyrokinection, September 14, 2013

Hostage

2013-04-19T11:36:00.000-07:00

At work he says to me, "How are you?
The last time we saw you, you ran out on
dinner. We all wondered where you went,
so we held your mom hostage." He jokes,
all smiling up a storm like I'd have an
explanation for him like I forgot my oven
was on or left my wallet at home. But
I know I've seen him since that night
at a work meeting somewhere. That was
almost exactly five months ago and
I don't bring those memories to work
with me. I don't put the train-wreck
feeling on the player at school while
I got my authoritative hands on my hips.
So I change the subject. He doesn't
know what an ass he's being. Sometimes
they just don't know.

4-19-13

Appeared in Eunonia Review, November 2013

Pack Animals

2013-04-17T16:16:00.000-07:00

Groups of teenage
boys laughing
like hyenas
still make me
grit my teeth and
tighten my grip
as the twelve
year old me
crosses her arms
across her chest,
pushes her eyes
down like a
criminal when
my only crime
was passing them
on the sidewalk.
Boys in packs
are hunters, not
friends and a twelve
year old girl can't
fight back, so she
learns to walk fast
and smile like an
apology but not
like an offering.

4-17-13

Appeared in Atticus Review, July 2013

Song Writer

2013-04-15T18:58:00.000-07:00

It so often
starts with music
plucking my heart
strings like a harp

that emotional swell
up like a tide like a
current I can't fight
or don't want to

I just lay back
and surrender, float
along the story sung
by the conductor of my

waiting breath, because
it sinks so much deeper
from the top of my throat
through my inner workings

to my lower central
nervous system, down
to the extent of my toes
and back up my thighs

sound is a gift and song-
sung by voice or guitar
violin or piano keys
I devour it all like a greedy

beast, licking its plate
I have never been
satisfied once, so I
became a poet to sing

in the voice God
gave to all poets, song-
writers without notes
without melody, yes

rhythm still, but music
words-not voice-still
breathe on the page and
inhale deep before the next

line. I am singing.

4-15-13

Appeared in Cadence Collective, August 2013

Ramble

2013-04-12T23:49:00.000-07:00

I don't have it
it didn't come today

all my thoughts

are disconnected

how loud my cat is purring

I didn't sleep well

I had a crappy day

I miss all my friends

for a hundred different reasons

how unclear my future is

how teaching can be exhausting

I have too much love inside

but I won't give it easy

there are too many tightropes

of going too far

of not going far enough

how I know what I need to do

but can't for the life of me

be the one who does it

I'm always questioning

my honesty

when I should fight

when I should let it all go

I can't stop biting my nails

I can't find a home

in someone else's heart

we are all compartmentalized

like a bento box

all on the same plate

but always on separate sides

I pulled all my anchors

or cut them or dragged them

either way I'm drifting

even though I own my house

and I have a steady job

I'm so damn independent

I want some more dependence

or a place to rest my head

and hear a heartbeat

that knows what I know

that will anchor me

and I can be home

4-12-13
Appeared in The Mind[less] Muse, September 16, 2013

Unknown Employee

2013-04-09T18:54:00.000-07:00

I saw a girl at Target, she was
me at twenty-one years old.
She had my blond hair and
simple black-lined eyes,

a red vest and black band
shirt from Joy Division's
Unknown Pleasures.
Iconic jagged white

mountain lines I once
plastered to my purse.
The image is a badge, I know
immediately, she is cool

in the way I was cool
working at Target at twenty-one.
I want to tell her we got
bigger plans, even if you can't

see it now, and that boy,
who torments your soul,
is just passing by. I want
to tell her we end up alright,

and all that confusion might
not get clear, but it settles.
And all that sadness, the
endless sadness fades away,

but I give her a slight grin
and muster, "I like your shirt."
I don't know how else to say it,
so I pay and leave for home.

4-9-13

Appeared in East Jasmine Review, Vol. 1 Issue 2

Night Birds

2013-04-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

At night, late past
twelve, I hear them.

Loud chirping birds
clear like night sounds

unmuddied by day
droning. They are

unapologetic. Sharp-
shouting, "I am heard!"

No contest for their
platform, no shove-

pushing, first-in-line
claim-staking. They

are joyous bastards.

4-5-13

Appeared in Eunonia Review, November 2013

Present Affirmations

2013-03-17T20:05:00.000-07:00

I am almost ready
to be over this
I am almost ready
to see you clear
that you were never really
good enough for me
I am almost ready
to pick up the pieces
I set aside
connect those dots
to pull the curtains open
to rip off the bed sheets
flip all the light switches
call you on your bullshit
see you small
and entirely pathetic
this lost puppy
is finding a new home
so you can keep that
old bitch who returned
I will not be laying
outside your door
I am almost ready
to tell you I'm too busy
I don't have time for
this fucked up game
and I'm tossing out
all the possible scenarios
of your apology
of your seduction
of your returning
I'm done with it
I'm almost ready
I am.

3-17-13

Appeared in Napalm and Novocain, Sept. 2013

These Roots Live

2013-03-10T09:06:00.000-07:00

by an anonymous author

                               these roots live

buried dark beneath two decades of time
                                 dormant in silence

straining to hear the echoes of past revelations

                                  wishing to grow

cradled warm in soil heavy with countless memories

                                   it is cracking

these roots starve, withering in the slow drought

                                   praying for rain

eager for a deluge of attention, flooding interest

                                   abundance once known

anxious to again be nurtured, fertilized with trust

                                    strong as before

they had grown unexpectedly, burrowing deep with ease

                                     weathering the tempests

confident in their invincible nature, they vowed immortality

                                       yet they faltered

stretched taut in opposite directions, no longer inseparable

                                        still they hope

they cling waiting for their demise or resurrection

                                         striving toward light

unwilling to accept that forever is already here

                                          these roots live

Once We Were Angry Youth...

2013-03-03T21:38:00.000-08:00

Once we were angry youth
shaved heads and colored hair
When I saw you were tragic
I adhered to you
So many secrets to keep
so much truth to grasp
We made honest promises
and everything we felt
it was sacred
Velvet capes and monkey boots
it was The Cure and L.S.U.
Music sang so many things
we knew them all by heart
We sat against the stereo
volume up high
as if to absorb it
inhale its passion
the truth of it all
was in guitar strings
and piano keys
I was anchored to you
in the hurricane of our youth
We outlasted the storm
and the years became memories
and miles grew between us
You and I got regular haircuts
and wore practical shoes
Always and always
I swore to keep us tied
I'd be that solid girl
who cleaned up after
those natural disasters
But the tides have changed
and it's you who set sail
you pulled up the anchor
and I am untethered
The current and our priorities
the list of things we hold as true
are no longer matched
Faithful wife of twenty years
I am still living alone
mother of teenagers
I am the mother of none
woman of the God
I no longer believe in
I know it was only loyalty
that tied us still
You hardly listen to music
and the song in my heart
is the saddest melody
I release you-though you've been gone
We are no longer angry youth
Will you return on another tide
Will time rise and fall
like the ocean waves
Will the anchors never sink
in the same deep waters
I am drifting out far
I know I can swim
But you were the only one
who knew the beginning and the end
long letters in pen and phone calls
salsa and bookstores at midnight
long drives to nowhere for the sake
of the songs on the stereo
and the promises and the secrets
we have none left to keep

3-3-13