Photo by Beth Burrell

by Sarah Snyder

Setting the Sun

Another sun slides away—
what if there were many suns
for Earth—a new one each day
riding across the blue and clouds,
ending a journey by dropping into
a large basket of suns—a collection
of suns to sift through, the way I examine
old stamps, buy them in other countries
to see the small pieces of art—scalloped
edged squares or rectangles face to face.
I’d pick up the suns once they’d cooled,
find a place for each—one in the bones
of a winter tree, one in the mirror,
and one on every envelope I send.


Wanting a Tattoo

On the underside
of my wrist,

veins visible,
skin translucent,

something to be
part of me,

maybe a little book
of victories,

a poem holder,

fenced into a mark
to touch and see

even in the dark,
formless unmooring

when I add
another pillow

under my head
to lift me.


A Different Direction
for Jen Hamilton

How you can attend a spill
on the counter with an instinctive

brush of a hand, removing some
but leaving the spread

of beaded remains. Or you can find
a cloth or paper towel, press

into the liquid, pull it all into fibers,
absorbing it—mirroring

moments, sweeping them away
with the swish of your swirling

world or draw them to you
taking in each second, each one.