My host wants to know if I write magic realism.
I tell her that isn’t a poetry thing
then spend the week second-guessing myself
as I pick mosaic pathways and hidden stairs,
dark thoughts flying away like tufts of hair
pulled from a comb and sent into the wind
for the birds to build with.
Cabin fever outstripping vertigo,
I burst from the mothballed apartment
each day to climb hill after hill.
I learn the chill comes from a blanket lifting,
cool air wafting under a shaken comforter.
Way down in the rumple
the ocean pools between volcanic bumps,
red spires poke and stucco walls
align in niches, blank dominoes
bouncing the hard sun back.
This high up, my dreams escape their housing.
writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and makes her husband laugh in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Chattahoochee Review, Tar River Poetry, Crab Orchard Review, 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.
Author’s website: https://sarahcarleton.com