Penobscot Bay
Thin as spider webs and barely noticed,
the morning clouds wisp the horizon.
It is the mountains that loom, the water
glossy as we skim on its back.
The paddles sweep through the sea.
And we move in the ghost
of silence. Eight kayaks
stretch out, pale and real.
About to Lift Off of the Tarmac
I remember a stuffed monkey on a wire
in a hazy house on Windsor Lane.
He was up high.
In that yard I buried the coal I stole
from the black pile toppling
out onto Second Street,
wished for a diamond,
now wait for other things—
a sign from my dead mother,
the violet flame,
right breath…
and how many fire trucks
do I have to watch heading
down the runway…and now
a Sky chef out the window
because no one stops
eating, careening above
the patterns below.
With a Polaroid Camera in Rwanda
One click let light in—
a brief exposure
of a child’s face.
A blank white
rectangle slid out,
the developing
chemicals reacting below
the glossy surface. Darkness
emerged first, muted and vague,
defining the borders,
gathering dimension—
nose, eyes, mouth.
All of the images
now tacked
or leaning
against a mud wall,
between the pages
of a grandmother’s Bible,
or warming a pocket—
four hundred bordered
faces there. Somewhere.
BIO: Sarah Dickenson Snyder has written poetry since she knew there was a form with conscious line breaks. She has two poetry collections, The Human Contract and Notes from a Nomad. Recently, poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Comstock Review, The Main Street Rag, Chautauqua Literary Magazine, Piedmont Journal, Stirring: a Literary Journal, Whale Road Review, Front Porch, The Sewanee Review, and RHINO. In May of 2016, she was a 30/30 Poet for Tupelo Press. One poem was selected by Mass Poetry Festival Migration Contest to be stenciled on the sidewalk in Salem, MA, for the annual festival, April 2017. Another poem was nominated for Best of Net 2017.
Wanderlust 