H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
Sara Fetherolf spent parts of her childhood in California, the Midwest, rural New Jersey, so her writing is inspired by the odd dreamscapes and back-roads that make up this country. Her poems are forthcoming or have recently appeared in Red Paint Hill, So To Speak, The Chattahoochee Review, Salamander, A Women’s Thing, and Hypertrophic Literary, where she was nominated for a Pushcart in 2015. In Fall 2016, she will be attending the Creative Writing & Literature PhD program as USC as a Dornsife Fellow. In the meantime, she lives in Brooklyn and teaches at Hunter College, where she received her MFA degree.
S A R A F E T H E R O L F
F R E E Z E
and still as a seed all night,
I’m waiting for the right skin-twist
to turn bird. To turn
astral body drawn out the belly button
like a magician’s everlasting silk
scarves from the throat
of a mute woman. I am waiting
for the name to call this waiting by.
Season of cups: they come up
in the cards and gather
by the bed, half full
of dusty water, while I am a thing
gunking and going yellow
underground, organic matter, swamprot
in old pipes and I dream
of a house, abandoned,
slip into the walls.
take me to the screaming basement
to the roof. It’s night by the sea.
The wind in the dream
yanks my hair. I twist in the sheets.
how to name this kind of nesting,
occult and numbing, the protection spell
built in my stay-still body.
I want to break it.
I want for it to hold.
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