Your laughing, or my trying to make it happen,

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sets me whirling like a barber pole.  Understand,
I am most myself when my heart’s all flashing,
my hands cupping water like a joke to throw
in your face.  Your body, crooked in laughter
I conjured, is a boulevard breaking under the sun,
freckled with leaves—the street I grew up on
and carry inside my feet.  Your grin is the ditch
I played in, wet and singing with mice. Darling,
when your whiskers curve at my turn of phrase,
when your eyes mist in recognition, a meadow
billows in my chest.  I want only to keep
falling the way starlight tumbles to Earth,
or smaller, as a sick bird falls from a tree,
gravity’s rough hands pulling it to the ground.

 

Photo By: Bryon Lippincott

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About Author

Sara Hughes earned a PhD in English from Georgia State University in 2014. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, The 2015 Best of the Net Anthology, and the 2015 Independent Best American Poetry Award. She has published in Rattle, Reed, Rosebud, TAB, Atlanta Review, Emrys, and Atticus Review, among others. Sara has also received two writing fellowships from I-Park Foundation and one from The Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences. She teaches literature and writing at Middle Georgia State University in Macon, Georgia.

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