Poetry By Sarah Redfield

Paul Sableman CC




Paid on Credit


Why am I here? 
Not at Göbekli Tepe,
like Atiye in The Gift,
on Netflix--
living in lush mystery,
looking 
for a startling symbol 
linking me 
to the ancients.

Instead, 
slouching down aisles 
looking 
for the time before loss, 
scattered like receipts 
and sticky wrappers 
on the floor of the car,
I stand--
7 Eleven on 3rd,
under fluorescent tubes 
at the coffee bar.
 
I do the whole works 
as two road crew guys
weave in, 
grab cups, 
pump coffee, 
I weave out 
around their bruised arms,
press the lid down, 
overwhelmed 
with untethered.

I side-eye quick 
the tall one’s hands,
blistered fingers 
pinch and tear 
three sugars at once. 
I wonder: 
how much weight 
can he carry? 
How long, 
for a lifetime? 

Staring into homes
I was born in,
brick, flowerless, 
empty doorways--
I figured out
weight can be returned. 
Without anger,
or forgiveness, 
dumped at the feet 
of the original owner.
Dead. Or alive.

I took a sip,
grabbed a maple bar, 
colors of the desert 
at Göbekli Tepe— 
paid on credit, 
not sure if I’d ever return.
 
Outside, 
Vivaldi played 
from a parked car;
a homeless guy stood, 
feet dancing side to side,  
under the overhang.

He held out his hands 
catching the rain, 
forecast to flood 
last year’s burn scars 
by midnight.

​

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Sarah Redfield's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Limberlost Review 2026, The North American Review, ACM, and Poets & Writers, She was awarded a Literary Arts Fellowship. Her novel-in-verse, Pictures of the Floating World, is currently seeking publication. Redfield lives on a working hay farm in central Oregon.