Indiscriminate, all over

sweaters, socks, the low


tank top, the pockets full

of stones, of rye: that white


dust left from tissues

at the laundromat. Grief


churning out its temperatures.

I have to laugh. I clap


my hands like erasers

so wet plaster falls, littering


my bedroom just before a new

boyfriend, his finger on


the bell. So many places I

once pressed my face, I am buried.


City On A Hill


The driveway’s blinding

white. Some stranger’s

shoveled us right into

sin. I’ve got your face

in my hand– the moon’s


on leave– so sunshine’s

filling. Hurry up and wait

with me while plants

debate at underwater

speed. Nowhere to go


but Easy, the radio

sings, yesterday, Easy to-

day. I prefer a stopped

car. I prefer a single bead

over the city line. I don’t


imagine you had time to

turn your wheel? We park

out here, fanatically. I’m

a fool for Stay.




“Peas do not germinate for the unheartbroken.”  –Mary Ruefle


Please do not germinate

for the unheartbroken


who too wear hoodies

with paint splatters, who


forget, brush their teeth

before their orange juice,


who give their numbers

to the bartenders, one bar-


tender who has a sail

of slips by now of small


paper. He sorts by pain

his golden


dog can track like anything:

floating sticks down


a river, the last

stubborn house fly, run-


away pancakes. Into one

pile go the well-postured;


the lost he’ll call. Stay close

to that barking. Be a red


scarf, a flag, attend

the flickering highway


ploughs. Please

don’t break, don’t


slide sideways for what’s

not moving. Please, eat

until you’re full.



Sarah Green is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at Ohio University. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in H_NGM_N, Cortland Review, FIELD, and Forklift, Ohio. Though she lives in the Midwest, her heart remains in Somerville, MA.