Poetry By Sarah Carleton

      Dave Cowley CC



Vessel

I
I row across the lake of whispers, 
gliding through verses, skimming over 
manifestos and prayers to zygotes,

cutting through the blather that flows up 
from the bottom like freshwater weeds.
When I hear web chatter, I scull it to ripples.

Even laments for the beloved planet
I navigate with barely a swell.
This boat is buoyant.

II
What if I lived lightly—took short showers
shunned clamshell containers

shredded newsprint for compost
kept the A/C at 80 degrees

didn’t make a stir, as fleeting
as a lick of water grazed by a shallow oar?

III
To be a body is an honor--
satiny splash on my fingertips
jetski waves rocking me.

​


​
The Meeting

I went down to the crossroad of peanuts and wheat,
saw no blues demon ready to bargain--

just two dirt ways, brimstone clouds
and power lines on leaning poles.

So I drove off through gravel and grain,
heading straight into the storm

as Sky grumbled,
You make an intersection and call it religion. 

I make thunderheads and the smell of ozone 
and you roll up your windows.

I protested that I loved her fearsome overkill:
You’re beautiful when you’re angry.

There was no way I’d get home before the downpour
carved crevices into the road

but at least in the backcountry you can pull over
to have words with a tempest, let hail 

rattle the car, stay still as the sky shouts invective.

​


Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, The Wild Word, Pirene’s Fountain, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and New Ohio Review. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.