THE CREATION OF THE WORLD
Brushing my teeth in a South Station bathroom is the closest I come
to being myself this morning. The buzzing florescents illuminating
my body bent here over the sink, my hands flashing under the faucet
is not a faithful copy of dawn like I am. I am so faithful. I am the sky’s
dog. At 6:03 a.m. I look in the mirror and I see words scratched into
the weather. I spit, and it’s clouds.
ABOUT THE POET
Ros Seamark is a queer poet and translator from Central California.
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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