email: sarah@thewrit.org passions: words and webs also published in: Aegis, Outside the Lines, and numerous self-publishing ventures other accomplishments: Member of Crooked Verse Poetry Slam Team 2003 influences: Ani Difranco, Alix Olsen, Maya Angelou

The Laugh

A couch under a pillow
flattens my face
with fatigue's gravity.
The thought is
      I want to... 
      far... far...
and the laugh is
      I've already...
      can't... more...
Habits of escape
still present in the destination
only shape the line
end touching end.
Circles
are spaces.
Language is all
I want to use
to fill my holes.

What it Means to be a Woman

Picture me naked.
Can you do it?
What do you see?
Picture me naked.
You got it yet?

Now be me.

I stand naked
in a mirror
and trace
a heart shape
with my finger
over the flat of my chest,
pressing
till the skin goes white,
and retracing.
My stomach 
tightens
to the best of its abilities
and my areola
wrinkle and harden
against my breasts.
I'm digging for life
this time, 
trying to find meaning
in skin.

I stand naked
in a mirror
and all I see 
is skin,
and it's too big.
It doesn't matter 
how small it gets.
It's still gonna be too big.

Picture me 40 pounds lighter 
and naked.

Five foot ten,
C cup breasts,
smooth curves
through the hips...
Add a tiny waist,
toned arms,
chiseled cheekbones,
and slim thighs
that carry the airbrushed perfection
of Penthouse Magazine.  
Paint a slick black line 
along the edges of my eyelids,
where my lashes begin
and go on for miles,
toss on some red, glossy lips,
because nakedness
surely can't apply to my face...

Let me warn you
I am worn out
by this mental exercise,
lifting weights, 
daily lifting
not just my 170 lbs,
but also 
one ton of judgments,
one ton of expectations,
and one ton of desires.

And let me warn you
I would be
a lot lighter
if I didn't have to carry
your baggage.

I have a friend who stands tall.
Her hair contrasts 
with her face like vinyl on denim,
Her mouth 
is a Midwestern highway.
Her eyes
are hermit crabs,
watching life through rough shells,
unaffected.
She says to me,
Girl, 
I'm not gonna
apologize
for my thighs.
They carry me.
And it's no sin
for us to get along.
And she says to me,
Girl,
but sometimes I wonder
what they look like
naked in the minds
of the boys I walk by.

We are sexualized,
generalized,
scrutinized,
and prized,
and the image begins
before we even leave our homes.  

Is this what it means 
to be a woman?

Picture me naked
again
but this time add forty pounds. 
I hope you see
the dimples
on my thighs,
supple, but strong
for standing up
under the weight of five men.
And I hope you see
roll of softness
sitting on my hips,
healthy, nourished, and stable
for carrying my children,
your future.  
And I hope you notice
the tender skin
which continues to provides comfort,
while bearing these loads.  

Because this
is what it means
to be a woman.  

4 Thoughts

Sometimes you hear
the words;
others
hear meaning.

My pens flow
from the peaks of my writing needs
to the lowest possible points in
my car when thought
needs me.

Sometimes
I weigh words
outloud           (like I miss you)
just to hear
if I'm lying.

I held your breath
while our weeks passed
apart.

I held your tongue
when you answered
the phone.

I held your composure
while we talked,

but when
you started to crumble
in my hands,
I wouldn't hold you.  

The Argument

Silent and still,
I thrashed against desire
and choice
while my cheek pressed against
prayer-hands.  
I stretched Saran wrap
across time
'til I spoke: please go.

Silent and still,
you bounced between self
and -lessness
while prayer-hands pressed between
your arms.  
Aluminum foil
deflected my plea
and you stayed. 

snowgrave

It can never be dark 
when the moon and the ground
are both milky white
and as broad
as they each can stretch.  

I trudge through the aisles
lined with name stones.
     People tell stories, 
     you know, about ghost faces--
     the sky so bright at ten pm
My stomp-sound changes
from heavy shifting
to a weightless crunch,
as though the ground
were a cereal bog.
I kick twice
at the matter,
scattering leaves
down the unsleddable hill.  

I think I may lie down tonight
and make snow angels
with my daddy buried below.
The stars he named with me
hide behind the moonlight, 
so I'll search
for faces in the clouds.