Issue 14

Poetry: Sarah Tibbling


I am elsewhere under fluorescent lights,
and parts of me begin to sleep. An arm sleeps.
A foot. A heart. My head balances
on its neck like a crane at dusk.
The last of me disappears as a book of lost poems
lays open and lonely on my lap.

I am shaken from this trance
as the light outside unhinges me.
Golden and free, so discernible
from the light in this room,
as if somehow, one is light and the other isn’t.
Like pigeons and doves
or brothers who no longer speak.

I then rub my eyes and mistake the swaying arms
of a willow tree, for you.
The breeze moves through you.
A child tugs at your shirtsleeve.

And through an open and far away door,
I swear you’re motioning to me.
Beyond the footsteps of day and the trembling of leaves,
I swear I can hear you, whispering.


I drink pixels of Sunday mornings and they calm
My frenzied nerves that splay out to remote controls.

What is in motion remains in motion.
What is at rest stays at rest.

The live wires in my legs, chest, brain, cripple
As flashes of Full House swell the basements of the world.


I was late for my reservation
at the Last Supper.
The maître d’ sighed
a gust of wind—
a cloud of olives and wine.

Jesus placed his hand
on my thigh
the white clothed table
while talking of love
moving his thumb
left and right          left and right
and I blushed.