To a world caught in a pandemic
There is a hemisphere of our island where the sea
laps in major sevenths. But at this point, I am past
mercy; the war clouds have been gathering for
weeks now, and the moon is but a hole punch
in the sky. This is where we exchanged ourselves,
where my tongue became too saccharin to utter
your name. It makes more sense if I count your
words with onions – tendons raw and blistered and
beet-red in the snow. But here in this sunken garden,
the world has already slipped through our fingertips
in a godless attempt to become lysogenic. And we will
never puncture the moon again. And you are already gone.
By Sarah Street
Sarah Street is a junior and Writing Fellow at the Westminster Schools in Atlanta, where she also writes for the school newspaper and edits the literary magazine. Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming in Aerie International, DoveTales: An International Journal of the Arts, Just Poetry National Quarterly, The America Library of Poetry, and Live Poet’s Society among others. Sarah’s work has been recognized by the New York Times Student Poetry Contest, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Writing for Peace Young Writers Contest, and River of Words Poetry Project. Sarah’s writing frequently explores themes of children’s rights and social justice; she is passionate about promoting diversity, advocating for human rights, and inspiring unity through writing, music, and community service.