Because it was summer, I spent hours on the swing
that hung on a tree near the house
pumping higher and higher, sailing in arcs,
light with relief at being in a state of surge.
I would land once my head felt airy
and read, idly toeing the ground
to make the seat sway. When gravity
needed a stir, I’d set the book down and twist
as far as possible, gripping the ropes,
then let loose the centrifugal force.
Craving a different point of view,
I spun in the living room, too, when it rained—
arms out like Julie Andrews in an Alpine meadow
—till the carpet tumbled me
down to watch walls and couches
and record player whirl.
writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Cider Press Review, Crab Orchard Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, New Ohio Review, Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, The Wild Word, and Valparaiso. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
Author’s website: sarahcarleton.com
