​​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



Supine 
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.

Hidden staircases
take me to the screaming basement 
or up

to the roof. It’s night by the sea.

             The wind in the dream 
yanks my hair. I twist in the sheets.

Tell me 
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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