Demo Tracks
They all want you to write
something sad about religion
where the train meets the rails
where the shaking knuckles
meet the trigger.
A handshake
(firm gripped) with God
that’s a shock to your system –
yeah, he gotcha good.
You’re still harmonizing with yourself
over some girl who never loved you
more than she loves her body, her womb’s
ability to conceive towheaded heartache.
The ghosts of your paintings
are crawling the walls
and your covers are quicksand.
Sometimes I see smoke but I can’t find
where the fire is. Sometimes
I catch you shredding yourself
but I don’t know how
to turn the machine off.
Even in my sleep, my teeth
are rotting out when we’re kissing
and there’s blood on your guitar strings.
When I wake up
my heart is pounding
like church bells.
Wet Graffiti
In this part of town,
the universe could be a girl
biking through brain waves in a tank top
or gas station soda
sticky on the bottoms of your shoes.
Your coffin is Ramen noodles;
your crown is a carton of cigarettes.
I am the advocate.
Snapping at sensitivity
until my jaw locks, clean.
I am the grocery store bouquet
and the toddler carrying the pink helmet
she’ll never wear in a two-fingered grip.
When you’re watching
the McDonald’s down the street
get demolished and picking yourself apart
at every stoplight,
a smashed skull
is a courtesy prize.
Bloodied Knuckles
Once we trailed after the same sunset
a parade of summer heat
but now we belong to warring tribes
painting our faces with each other’s frailties.
You’re running circles and I’m
dropping pebbles
to somehow keep myself centered.
You’re pitching up tornadoes and I’m
marking the sky
transmitting some sort of warning.
The river roars to life
a tumult of terror in my chest
as the battle reaches a fever pitch
and you stir up shards in your wake.
Sarah Marchant is a poet in St. Louis who struggles with being fully present.
