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.

 

by Sarah Marchant

 

Sarah Marchant is a poet in St. Louis who struggles with being fully present.

 

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