How It Started
Later, in the foyer,
after the wine,
we talked about Aunt Margaret.
When she lost her eyes
she ran into the walls
and all I could do was laugh
as she fumbled
through the darkness.
We cut through pie
but the pumpkin stuck to my throat.
I choked and from then on was afraid
of swallowing, chewing my food
to mush, if I ate at all.
My body was accustomed to the well‐lit
cycles of the moon. It changed with them.
I let the bells toll, their dry, gray tongues
lap the earth’s feet.
Now I’m caught in the slipstream.
I long for my summer body,
naked and cradled between
tunnels of fly‐trap teeth and
volumes, volumes of lawn.
I bear witness to the ones who claim
the voices told them to jump.
Standing on this edge I am an escape artist.
Sarah Grodzinski has an MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University. She is currently an adjunct instructor in writing at Lebanon Valley College in Annville, Pennsylvania. She has had poems published in Off The Coast Magazine, Burning Word Press, and The Red Clay Review.