Poetry By Sarah Sandman

       Ben Seidelman CC



IT HAS BEEN 20 YEARS

The acorns are gathering,
as if they have been placed by zen monks,
carefully laid out: one, two, three.
I asked raven the purpose of this laying out,
and she didn’t respond. I plant rotting pumpkins instead.

I wish for the spring tulips,
the blue corn that sprouted as tall as my house--
the vibrant rainbow radishes. They are gone now.
Like always in fall--
we carry the dead,
the weight,
the slipped-through-my-hands.

What I meant to say is I will
hold my newborn niece,
and feel our shared blood
gushing in my ears;
what I meant to say is
this is not a love poem to her--
but to the baby lost--
left, gone. Left me.

My womb has been empty 
for twenty years, now,
carrying only bones and empty mouths.

We are asked to carry the dead.
We are asked to carry our dead.



​
Sarah Sandman writes and teaches in Indiana. She loves dandelions, her sweet pets, and her brilliant and beautiful wife.