The sun rises before me now, casting a
yellow bar across the bathroom mirror. Cold water and toddler senses, I actualize my fingers, the movement of eyelids. Reaching out from the gathers of my eyes I see there are fine eggshell cracks, laughing, splintering the crest of my cheekbone into tidal patterns, deltas, highways I remember mothers of my friends, more delicate and polished than my woodsmoke and raw onion sturdy mother, warning me against the sun, about the sea, about light As if the fractures and creases of living and the spangled decay of age and the inevitable fall from grace into a fragmented, wrinkled joy stained life could be avoided may 2015, copyright Sarah Hirsch |
Writing, writingA blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc! Archives
October 2017
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All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2017. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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