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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


Birth Trio


Let this wonder grow
like everything else does -
the bump on my nose, banged in the bath
the pink impatiens, my impatience with absence
as my husband hounds the bounds of marriage
about another bridal pair.
Even the ice cream guy has an eye for me
these days. Till three he works away
spinning cream through sandy ice
churning the butter dance, as the liquid quickens
like my little one, coming to life, in and out of days
over a week and through months end to end.
I get the bends from diving deep inside myself
looking for junior, searching this new soul
lodged beside my borrowed rib.
*
The human limbs of the spinning fan
rotate slowly in the feckless breeze:
the clouds' second thought of sending movement
down below. Here our bodies write upright lines,
but the baby settles head down,
his own position
bunching the body for flight,
a cannon ball jump into life
revolving through birth, rolling into gravity,
the grave situation of placing mind over all
when the red pulse of a head hung down
may produce a splash of human rain:
a richer thought.
*
Blowing in between me and sleep
a sandy-eyed gaze into smallness
that screams. Your too-tender lungs
clutch the ends of my nerves,
fill this house with your growing presence.
The burning spout can barely
suckle lips whose creases
puff wet friction.
Take me to spattered sleep,
following bits of peace
you deal out like a haughty dancer.
constant clatter of bracelets:
our home's new hum.


         Sarah Wyman__

Vehicle

When the winch yanked the car
up a set of stairs
wheels conforming to corners
fatly at each el,
I knew this effort wasn't meant to be
            up
            or
            down
gravity laughing at the heavy tug,
gasoline dripping crisply
from the open hole.

Still, the unquieting effort
forcing metal off the track,
windows torqued
and close to breaking
mimicked those mis-measured
days, efforts stumbling
'cross the waves of making.
         Sarah Wyman


Tepid Trepidation


A dish dropped
through the nightly tangle of bubbles,
porcelain sheen disappearing,
green gone in a watery glaze
from textureless fingers
spirals no deeper down than a child's reach,
pulling plates into position,
each pressing the others down
in a slow undertow most expected,
straight rows rounded and edged with gold.

Yet, steps from the sink
water burned the soft curve of your shoulder
boiling its angry spill,
a free acid angled by heat,
a well-placed blade of mist,
a still wave.

So let them soak free of their traces,
serving only themselves, a firm curving salute
from wet depths, weary of wrestling
with no breath to hold.


         Sarah Wyman__

Marshmallow Unbound

The truth is, she claimed,
those soft cubes of squishiness
freed of their plastic sack
and readied for the stick,
8 corners set to relinquish
their points, cannot hold up,
bonfire or no,
cannot compete
off the Stop & Shop shelves
with the true spirit of spun
corn syrup and gelatin:
thick delights of sugar
in its richest iteration,
dense slide of glistening elasticity
pulled off the spoon
whipped to a frothy
coating of the bowl
smeared into the pan
and smoothed down to set,
awaiting a sprinkling
of cornstarch confection,
a dusting of the hand's own touch.

         Sarah Wyman___