I think you can get a long way with red leather boots, a good deck of Tarot cards and the right pen. Maybe all the way to the next dream. I hope so, because my second collection, We Are Traveling Through Dark at Tremendous Speeds, was published by LitFest Press in 2016, and I'm currently sitting with the blank page, listening hard for the next whisper, the next inkling, the next glimmer.
Poem on November 8, 2016
My children, or my grandchildren, or some
anonymous fifth grader of the future,
will ask me what I did on the day
the First Woman President of the United States
was—was not elected. “Did you canvas? Make phone calls?
Run the bake sale? Wear white? Wear a pantsuit?”
No. I paced the house, nervous as a cat in a storm
and all alone. I wore blue, dark as midnight.
I checked my computer obsessively, walked away,
swore I wouldn’t look again, then did.
I wanted to do more. I was completely incapacitated.
I lit more candles than usual, and kept them burning. All day.
I wrote poems.
I tried to breathe.
I cried a few times, softly.
And told myself repeatedly that this day
was the outer form only. That what was important
had been done, would continue to be done.
Conversations engaged in, insistences, conflicts, respect and love,
laughing and flirting and flaring and listening hard,
cooking with others, walking alone sometimes,
raising my voice, accepting the microphone if it was my turn,
making a damn fool of myself too often to keep count
and waking the next day. Walking it back when I needed to
and risking again. Insisting over and over in every word penned,
every gesture of my body, every decision of the household,
that the personal, the political, the poetical are all
indistinguishably one and the same. The world turns
on small motions we hardly see. Fill the oval.
Mend the frayed cuff. Write the next line. Open the door.
©2017 Sarah Sadie
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