Ellen Sander

Staying Still On A Moving Sphere.

A single cell that no longer exists created me, 

ash left from my parents’ fire,


a piece of seaweed clinging to a rock 

in the changing tide, dust, I’m told, dust from distant stars. 


My open hand, so many lines, phalanges

joints, puckers and scars. I grip the doorknob, turn, 


fight the light through a wetness of yesterday’s storm. Today, 

grey, moist and quiet, I’m rescued by  fatigue. 


The refuge of being busy resolves into forgetfulness.

There is only so much I can do. No matter how I turn


it is to. Leeward. toward a ruddy dawn, this 

celestial stuff spread so vast as to make meaning


meaningless. If I break in befuddlement

it is usually one of my bones, metatarsal, radial, humerus, rib.


I heal, I break, I heal.

Dog Days

Heat ravels, silty from city air, subway 

chudders underfoot. Warm wind, damp,

my neck hair moves by itself.


Tapping my feet, my forehead, sinewy 

shift to vehicular music, aromas,

heady mingles of pizza, curry, felafel. 

 

The light changes. I cross over. I find 

peace in these concrete silos,

the loneliness is so familiar.

Ellen Sander, a rock and roll heart, resides in Belfast, Maine, where she was Poet Laureate in 2013 and 2014. She hosts a quirky poetry hour on the local low wattage station, WBFY. Born in NYC, she lived in Bolinas, Venice Beach, Beijing and Xiamen before recomposing in Maine. Her next poetry chapbook will be published by Red Bird Chapbooks in 2022.

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