Sarah B. Ledbetter is a dancing writer and a writing dancer whose work has been featured in the International Poetry Review, Floromancy, and Mais Oui. Earthdance, Axis Syllabus, Berlin Festival of Black Cinema, DC Shorts, Sans Souci Festival of Dance Film, among others, have presented her work for screen and stage, and she was awarded “Best Screenplay” in numerous film festivals. Not at all certain that any of that matters to a reader, she’d like to add a note of gratitude for the example of artists like Sandra Cisneros and Natalie Goldberg who encourage her to make things a person can enjoy while riding the bus home from work after a long day. Visit her on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Sarah Ledbetter and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
For Camden on his Last Days Invisible
Somewhere in Atlanta right now
there floats a warm saline bubble
inside of which is my invisible
next of chosen kin, quiet as
a bud, sipping languidly from
the opening at his belly center,
wanting for nothing, ready for
nothing that is coming at him
any day now.
Far outside the action we are waiting
for this child and knowing
even once he is here
we will keep missing him.
My brother often says, even
an hour and several hugs into
a visit, that he misses me. I now
understand that the shape of us
standing before us
has a limit. It’s not enough of
everything we see when
we’re apart. Apart,
I know you from the inside and now
you stand here doing some
specific thing, and I am jettisoned,
left to the architecture. As a body
there’s a limit to our love, and
Camden, this limit is the world
to which you descend as surely
as long-awaited rainfall
from a helpless cloud.
We are sorry for every time we
will miss you but promise that capable
hands await at least this,
your first dive,
your song to braid in ours, your
question in a long
line of questions mostly
unanswered going way back.
Come be with us out here in the not-knowing and
forgive us for believing we must pour
the liquid centuries into you.
Find a place of your own as
soon as you can to open the release valve
Keep only what
reminds you of home or provides
needful means for its deconstruction. Then hold
your own hands in the dark and
place we cannot reach.
Emalisa Rose is a poet, craft artist, animal rescue volunteer. Living by a beach town provides the inspiration for her art. Her work has appeared in Poettree, Parrot Poetry and Echo the Whale.
The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Emalisa Rose and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
caught in the leaf limbo
on the ninth of November
your leaves became lyricists
vining in violet..cliff diving in
Calgary, double dutching in
Delaware..caught up in the
interlude, i collapsed at the
overpass..laying down in the
conifers..i slumbered in Sicily
waking up in a summer song
shed of my second skins, i
was dressed up in daffodils.
those yellow leaves
i counted five then
tic of time as Summer
simmers on the front
line, its jaundiced leaves
softly falling, winking with
an Autumn dream.