ice crusts the river
float under willows, pretended corpse
screams of horses, guns and our women
bubble burble under Oregon grape
vines and hollowed out juniper
in crunch-snow. crouch by springs–
a fountain of pure water in
a thicket of small
willow and wild olive
trees:
relief and peace gather at these waters
rub yarrow in our wounds
tamp down cheatgrass, see
our son escape with his beloved
on horseback, but she will not
outride the bullets in her back
A poet for thirty years, a mother for twenty-one, a midwife for ten years, a teacher for seven, Sarah Jean Carter is a lover of granite, sandstone, honeybees and humans, currently in the midst of an English MA program at Weber State University and launching people who used to be babies into an uncertain world. Sarah has written poetry for LitStart, Exponent II Online, and a small tribe of nieces and nephews who appreciate her Pokemon-based verse.
