Saturday, April 4, 2015

a poem by sarah sala

The Dime Store

“The white pills could be what
they call placebos, dream stuff”
—Jackson Pollock
Such Desperate Joy

Anne Carson took a step

in her white leather winter


eyes a drip-stain of ink:

a kind of acrylic spilt

from the iris

storm strewn snow

like shards of windshield

glass inside her hair

her bird a heart that would

not beat

Sarah Sala is a graduate of New York University's MFA program, and she lives in Manhattan. Her poems appear in Poetry Ireland Review, All Hollow, Leveler, Atlas Review, and Vending Machine Press.

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