Two Poems
Sara Marron On The Historic Register The city is unmoved by changing forms: Magnificent brick row houses with Heavy black doors on silent streets Canopied by trees growing out of concrete Fake candles flicker with funneled electricity Pairs of sentinels guarding the whitewashed frames Muted greens and maroons March One by one on Corcoran Street Stuffed so close to one another that Their ribcages bump together Creaking and moaning and joining The wail of the ambulances Screaming towards the broken or bleeding The cavernous bowels of each Structure suck the air through itself Surviving on the absence of And because of it. Slovak Smelling Salts Felipe gave me smelling salts in Slovenia Evening hanging over morning As the sheets clung to the bed frame We had kicked them there And I inhaled, through my nose Lacking the words for senses of Scents so kissing you on the shoulder Instead and celebrating The instinct of the Alps Whipping around coursing warm Bodies full of blood and Exchanging some warmth with you Shoeless in the frozen foothills Padding to another hotel room To rest my head on another’s chest And lay naked, listening to The Heart of Saturday Night You packed away your sorrows And returned to Oxford I to New York and Felipe disappeared because I’ll never be able to describe What he smelled like. |
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About the Author: Sara Marron is a law student in Washington D.C., relocated from Queens, New York. She is a poet, and works in the legal world because law is the strictest form of meter and rhythm, and she seeks to learn how to dance within those tight limits. Her poetry has been published on multiple platforms, and her first book, The Reasons for the Long T’um, is forthcoming Summer 2018 by Broadstone Media. Sara is also, unsurprisingly and perhaps stereotypically, a black coffee drinker and prefers chess to television. You can read more of her work here.