by Sara Mae
Sara Mae is a Sagittarius Rising & crystal bitch currently trying to ground herself in Boston, Massachusetts. By day she is a student, and by night a public cryer, otherwise known as a slam poet. She is the 2017 IWPS rep for Slam Free or Die, a 2018 Emerson College CUPSI team member, and a 2018 Boston Poetry Slam NPS team member. She is a head organizer for the Feminine Empowerment Movement Slam (FEMS) Organization. She believes in the magic of blue bicycles and orange lipstick. She hopes you think her bangs are not too long.
This poem was awarded the 2018 Peach Bronze in Poetry by guest judge Morgan Parker.
I love the expert handling of language, playful word and syntax choices--the poem is so controlled and sharp. Just some delicious lines throughout.
In a 1926 Suburban Backyard, the Older Sister Explains
How the Charleston Became Known as the Dance of Death
When I die, taxidermy the torn pantyhose.
In my eye sockets, let there be marbles
from playing on the pavement, purple
scuffed knees & our skin smelling like sky.
Mortar & pestle my wrists with buttercups,
so everyone may know what a liar I am,
always was. You remember the Schnapps
breath, orange peels, our laughter after
I unhinged the backdoor with my left heel.
Forgive me, for I have pinned
a man to the mattress & tongued the pennies
of his earlobes like a magic trick. Brass section
bondage. The music begins like this. Flick
of the fist in soil pulling out bergamot root.
Home, sick of the light & how we turn gasoline
sweet in chapel glass. The dance of baby’s breath
& how we conduit all our mother’s shame,
saccharine, saplings green in the love letter crease
of cobblestones. It’s like this. The botany of a heel
clicking bed frame. Pentacles of sweat beads
& harvest moonlight like a creamsicle melting
across the floor. Look at you, doing your hair
as if it will stay. Finger curled through the end
of a humid humming night. Across town,
a trumpet is lamenting my good frankincense.
How I crossed my legs like it would bring me luck.