a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Poems By Emily Sullivan Sanford
WRITER, RIDER

The page will not stay still for me.
How did I ever manage before?
A daily question, creeping amnesia.

My poems are butterflies and moths
I can only sometimes tell apart
when they back away
or flutter too close
to see themselves in my irises,
chewing on my clothes
and my flowers.

The page grows old white.
My veins turn into branches and twigs.

Everything I used to seep
would hit the ground running,
stain and swim across a mind.
Inkless, bloodless,
my pen points north like a claw.

Get a net, get some big black boots,
learn to run after them.

In four directions at once, if I have to.


Emily Sullivan Sanford's poetry has been published in "Poetry Motel," and she is a contributing author of the book "Surgically Shaping Children," published by Johns Hopkins University Press. She lives in Berlin where she works as writer, translator, and English teacher.

Copyright 2009  Chantarelle's Notebook