Sarah Bartlett
4 poems
**
Character Study (7)
You asked me what I would want
to flash before my eyes when I die,
so I drew a picture of a carousel.
Horses held in a leap by shining poles,
mirrors reflecting faces and blinking lights,
the whole contraption revolving
like a planet on its axis. I told you
to pick your horse. You took a black marker
and scrawled a giant X on its flank.
In case you forget where to look,
you said, I’ll be right here.
It’s strange to know you’ll be there
long after you’ve disappeared
from everywhere else.
**
The City Is The Stars
I made a recording
of wind chimes
to play on my porch
when the sun goes down.
It compliments
the ice in my glass.
Neighborhood cats
engage in yowling
group sex that I know
is not consensual.
I don't miss anyone
at this decibel.
**
In The Beginning
Storms had autumn humming a big tune—
everywhere trees scattered limbs
over the road, welcomed footfalls.
We stepped around them as we marched,
uncomfortable with the too easy crack.
(The leaves wore red camouflage,
waited on the road to spill.)
There are moments just before sleep,
stretched out under damp canvas,
when I hear them hunting for me:
a sniffing gravel slide,
a pantomimed tumble.
I dream myself into a deep hole,
cocooned, ripe for flame.
**
Alterations
She went to visit her parents
and the rain never stopped.
They sat inside all day,
her mother flipping through Vogue,
licking a finger to snap
the pages down; her father hid
in the garage, hunched over a lamp,
tying flies. She practiced
duets on the piano, played until
it sounded like four hands
at the keyboard, a warm body
touching hers. After a few days
of Heart and Soul,
she parked behind 7-Eleven
and smoked pot with the clerk,
sucking smoke into her lungs
and holding it there.
On the drive back to the house,
wipers turned the windshield
into a Chinese fan flecked gold
by streetlights. Clouds draped
themselves like gray bunting
from telephone poles. Higher still,
airplanes flew across the country,
blinking back at stars.
**
return to Sawbuck 1.6
**
Sarah Bartlett received her MFA from Emerson College and now lives in Portland, OR , where she reads poetry for Tin House, and holds down a day job. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in RealPoetik, Goodfoot, LIT, Free Verse, Redivider, Tin House, and Rhino.
**
Character Study (7)
You asked me what I would want
to flash before my eyes when I die,
so I drew a picture of a carousel.
Horses held in a leap by shining poles,
mirrors reflecting faces and blinking lights,
the whole contraption revolving
like a planet on its axis. I told you
to pick your horse. You took a black marker
and scrawled a giant X on its flank.
In case you forget where to look,
you said, I’ll be right here.
It’s strange to know you’ll be there
long after you’ve disappeared
from everywhere else.
**
The City Is The Stars
I made a recording
of wind chimes
to play on my porch
when the sun goes down.
It compliments
the ice in my glass.
Neighborhood cats
engage in yowling
group sex that I know
is not consensual.
I don't miss anyone
at this decibel.
**
In The Beginning
Storms had autumn humming a big tune—
everywhere trees scattered limbs
over the road, welcomed footfalls.
We stepped around them as we marched,
uncomfortable with the too easy crack.
(The leaves wore red camouflage,
waited on the road to spill.)
There are moments just before sleep,
stretched out under damp canvas,
when I hear them hunting for me:
a sniffing gravel slide,
a pantomimed tumble.
I dream myself into a deep hole,
cocooned, ripe for flame.
**
Alterations
She went to visit her parents
and the rain never stopped.
They sat inside all day,
her mother flipping through Vogue,
licking a finger to snap
the pages down; her father hid
in the garage, hunched over a lamp,
tying flies. She practiced
duets on the piano, played until
it sounded like four hands
at the keyboard, a warm body
touching hers. After a few days
of Heart and Soul,
she parked behind 7-Eleven
and smoked pot with the clerk,
sucking smoke into her lungs
and holding it there.
On the drive back to the house,
wipers turned the windshield
into a Chinese fan flecked gold
by streetlights. Clouds draped
themselves like gray bunting
from telephone poles. Higher still,
airplanes flew across the country,
blinking back at stars.
**
return to Sawbuck 1.6
**
Sarah Bartlett received her MFA from Emerson College and now lives in Portland, OR , where she reads poetry for Tin House, and holds down a day job. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in RealPoetik, Goodfoot, LIT, Free Verse, Redivider, Tin House, and Rhino.
