MAYBE I AM HERE
and there you are, sort of, like a row of trophies seen through a
picture window, very green-gold, but anymore, Lemon Drop, I am
not a woman who can sleep with whomever she wants. In the house
my skin jitters, a wind picked up across a lake, and I keep opening
windows hello? hello? but the sun just sticks, lozenged in trees
wind-stripped. Some days, things
look strangely: a single shoe on the sidewalk or a pot, in sunlight,
on a stoop. Some days nothing will jimmy the vision. Pop-Tart,
what I’m trying to say is I saw mountains in the rearview too, I saw
the girl running into the street. Nightly, headlights move across the
neighbor’s field, empty as a nightgown, or they hover, like someone
standing with a set of keys.
ABOUT THE POET
Kate Northrop is a recipient of the Jeannette Haien Ballard Writers Award and fellowships at the MacDowell Colony and Yaddo. Her recent poetry collections are Clean (Persea Books) and cuntstruck (C and R Press). Northrop is a contributing editor at The American Poetry Review and teaches in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Wyoming. She lives in Laramie, WY.
ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW
We loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), and we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We're featuring audio recordings of poems from our pages, read by the poet. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.
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