Many find ecstasy in glasses of whiskey
Drowning their sins in gin and tonic
Dancing to the gait of cabaret dancers
Lighting a smoke, shortening the rope
A walk in the woods in the bosoms of the trees
The joyous rhythm in the tossing of flowers
God has gifted me the power
To appreciate every solitary hour
The one who participates in
The one that fails to ignore
their mistaken identity,
and does not anticipate
good intentions to backfire.
You are the cook
whose meals are less than
You are the friend that phones.
The daughter that won't be
manipulated, the mother
that is concerned, and the wife
who won't give her husband
regular blow jobs.
Sara Fielder © May 2022
flower spies me through its periscope after
i lay upon the grass mattress
the diatomaceous earth being
tilled beneath by worms in cordial, unfazed shifts.
didn't I place that greenery there? predetermined what its
width and breadth would be in accordance with
the grave I dug for roots to go in,
imagined i could control the seasons, boasted
special fertilizer and city water would subjugate
the plant from dying,
took for granted that it would
with absolutely no attention
just the same as I do.
Sara Fielder © June 2022