Sara Quinn Rivara
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After You Went God, I
prayed tongue and breast go dust-and-ash, go straight
through the roof, ascension’s sweet conflagration—but
the fallow field of soybeans beaten by light cry: autumn.
Cleaving. I thought I was left, but I meant: I was leaving.
Birdsong through the cleft in the trees. And when you
return riding that little white pony, circus tent billowing
up behind you like hellfire, your beard grown to your knees
and swaying in the rapturous breeze, rime will climb
all the windows and the elephants will bolt from the cars
and the train will jump the tracks right into my soft
lap. Sweetcakes, I’m going to say, I’ve made you a cup
of tea. I’ve woven a terrible rug on my loom. Hold
the shuttle. Start the clocks. Time scaffolds its bony frame
against the horizon: tree and electric lines. Red as a fox. As
the apple left in the compost pile, the steady line of ants
that carries it all beneath the dirt. I’ve set my watchfires, sweet.
When you come back, I’ll be waiting. I’ll be the first beast you meet.
Sleeping Bear Dunes
Let me tell you the story of the bears, Sugar, how they ambled down the dune one afternoon and ate all the honey, all the bread. How they sniffed the top of your pretty little head. Undo your mouthful of thumbs. They buried all the guns and bathed their terrible skins in the cold waters of Lake Michigan. Which hide did you take off and fold on the sand? The female one. The one that did us in. The human girl who undid her life like a shirt, like a torn seam, that scar, that hurt. The sycamore dangles its empty hive. Of course it would come to this: such conflagration. The future presses its meaty snout against our narrow throats--can you feel its sour breath? Pine and wind. Put on your wild pelt. Open your mouth and roar like hell.
How to Write A Poem
Begin with what hurts: tornado weather, cold front, waterspout.
With the empty bed, field of narcissus and the ravine so dark
it could cleave a girl clear in two. Boylan Street sunk in landfill gloom,
tree of heaven clicking against the living room window. The baby never
sleeps. Just name the birds, baby chewing your breast: wren, titmouse, nut-
hatch, buzzards by the dozen. A pair of sparrows on the back stoop, little
brown nothings. A bruise like a rose. Cracked tooth, water bill, fucking. Even
so, the crabapple blooms and smothers the yard with sweet perfume.
Even so, a robin weeps in the dwarf cherry: storm, storm, storm. Without
language, a hole, a chute, a woman's mouth sweet as rotten fruit. Sewn
shut. The song dwindles, ends. Thunder. Begin: I, ache, gouge. Begin with singing.
Say nothing, you're dead. Begin with the names of the girls who got out.
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Sara Quinn Rivara's poetry has appeared in Blackbird, Cream City Review, The Cortland Review, Bluestem, Literary Mama, 32 Poems Magazine, and Midwestern Gothic. Her book, Lake Effect, was published in 2013 by Aldrich Press. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and children.