Leveler Poetry Journal
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Before Much Ado About Nothing

 

When I read a poem

that fucks me up

with its gorgeousness

I don’t want to be the poet.

I want to be the poem.

I’m sorry for bumping

into your mom, Kid.

It was summer in NYC.

Little white face, you

craned back your head

to face the accuser.

In the afterlife, I’ll be

a poem. Just a plain

sheet of typing paper

bludgeoned with ink.

The one that captures

the tar-green tenderness

in your, eyes, hardened

with daughterly outrage.




Sarah Sala