Sarah Burgoyne writes story poems, short lyrics, long walks, tiny chapters and fake psalms. Her recent publications include Love the Sacred Raisin Cakes (Baseline Press, 2014) and Happy Dog, Sad Dog (Proper Tales Press, 2013) and she has a forthcoming manuscript called Saint Twin with Mansfield Press. Her work has been described as a warbly joy of observation tempered by deep disquietude: that ancient pipe slowly cracking under the house during a birthday party.






Looking up, I discovered that I’d always been a young bore. The night sky made it always impossible to tell the difference between a river and a plain path. I move along it anyways, having dressed in fine denim, having been blest by the priest’s son, then leered at by the bottom of the glass. I’m not used to having no one come when I call and I blame it on the outrageous effects of polka dots. The cupboard closes once more over my eyes, leaving a dusting of every day of my life on the carpet. Time to replace the rug. Beckon the new, but please don’t.

Look ahead, John, there’s a new coat of summer jackets and shoes without holes on the human planet. An hour stint but already feeling bad for not seeing everyone is truly perfect. The waiter passes by your vision to never mind. I come around asking for change for a turnip and you give me some. When the pollen falls in our laps, I toast my great aunt Blanche. She always thought I rode a horse, and I agreed so I rode it over the grass that coiled pathetically under the snow just in time for our worst Christmas ever. I remember it, but the name slips.

Keep me away from the garden, and I promise to have it out. Scratching wax off last night’s table, you did feel bad. Expect advantageous changes this morning! Let yourself go and feel happy with the afternoon moon! The knife in your hand winks, but you aren’t interested today. These confessions seem dull in the face of the widows among the orchids. Please remember, I was unfair because I loved you. When you ask, I’ll tell you to give my books back to the trees and I’ll hold those olive pits in my heart. Suck the salt, now and then.