The last thing I am writing

is the house which was never

mine        just a net catching

litter from the future

tense come apart


Three days dark

Three days cold aura


Three days deafness at the bottom

of a well     Three daysí fast

Three seasonless

days departed

from this room


Let clouds make babies         plump and dumb

Let clouds slacken and waver

on their tethers    gather separate bundles

of the room in our arms     

Iím already treading

thick water on a vacant street


Days are the door returning me

to the impasto         I break into planes

Dead sage lain as a blanket

bottletrees filter sun         hang in the mid-ground

You said the air was pregnant

With what    Iím so faint

by afternoon        music

tips me over


Thirty one days I hang

nocturnes where your voice was

I dance moon

drugged          a windmill slowing

I dance fog     guts lead

from one corner to another        How dead

is the grass     I dance

hours coming         a matchstick

collapsing face first

        I leap at the ceiling

How does the house rest

How is the heat    I donít love

any light enough to eat

For thirty one days

I keep the legs up    talk

about going on

I dance shrugs limply

on the tip of a thread        sadly

never leaving the earth


Snow everywhere

looked like a fine place

to lie down     I read your letter

to me in  a poem    real as magnolia

lurking in your collar       I guess

Iíll drive around a while

to wring out the tremor

Iím as upright in this

longing as I am clawed

by the dream of the house

warming me into its dark

Red letter    red unraveling

you to a door is a hoax

where the moon is

a mirror on either side


Sara Renee Marshall comes from the American southwest. She is the author of Affectionately We Call This The House (Brave Men Press). Her poems appear in places like Poor Claudia's Crush, Octopus, OmniVerse, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Sara lives, teaches and writes in Colorado.