I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.

I am at my best at early a.m. when I click
the radio on and listen to NPR
interviews of people from

countries like Scotland, Nigeria, and Italy;
not long ago I heard a Swede tell how
he pickles Harbor

seal meat,  and a day ago  a Mexican
who was shot through the tailbone
by a child with a .22 rifle

argued  her country has pitiful
accommodations for
the handicapped.

Learning of the Swede, Mexican,
and slain seals liven me;
and then the sun rises.

a stranger sat in dad's chair at the head of the table,
a young soldier wrapped in bandages that leaked body fluid,
a possessed spectral that stared at the stuffing and gravy
on the Thanksgiving plate like a foreign
object he'd lost familiarity with, me wondering,
if dad might be home for Christmas

he was about the same age as mother,
though most veterans I'd seen seemed older,
as if they'd lost the map to heaven
and needed someone to
come along and help them find it

white gauze wound around his head,
so that only holes for his mouth and
faraway eyes showed,
the feeding utensils as obscure
to him as the blue sky outside

and when the day began to run out,
the serviceman's mind engaged in a different war
more bazaar than eating,
he said nothing when mother picked up a spoon
and fed him the way I would my dolls


Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2014

it's as nippy as a
Japanese gymnast outside
and I struggle to hide
my disappointment from
anyone watching

autumnal leaves levitate
on puffs of charcoal cold
and I know it won't be
long before the radioactive
compost of winters armor
tests my melatonin mind
with having to wear a
double pair of socks
during the approaching equinox

the front of it's frigid face
pressurizing the nerves and
blackmailing my someday ability
to hear those faraway vocals
of a narcissistic spring

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2016

the young girl looked around
her room with satisfaction and ease
scrutinizing the bed she'd made
with military precision,
sitting on the floor not to disturb
the coverlet so carefully
smoothed out wrinkle free,
it's edges sharp, clean and in line
with the four walls,
something she had duplicated
from page thirty four of her
mother's J.C. Penney catalog

there was comfort in it's symmetry,
the way her stuffed animals stood at
attention in a row from left to right,
the larger animals progressing
towards smaller ones,  
flawless and untouched

at school she was failing fifth grade
but thank the God of Episcopalians
her parents didn't know,
she'd hidden her report cards
even though they weren't ever asked for

she worried about being held back,
but the system rarely did that,
unless you were one of the
more fortunate kids that could
afford private school,
and she reckoned Mrs. Bell
would take pity on her

now, sitting cross legged
she feared what punishment
would befall her while piecing
together the torn fragments she'd
seen her mother throw into
the waste basket,  

methodically puzzling the jagged
edges of paper,
matching up words,
gingerly taping the thing back together

it had taken some time,
for mother had shredded it thoroughly
not recognizing the bad mans handwriting,
wondering why she hadn't figured out that
matches were safer than
getting caught

relived, she placed his love
letter between mattress and box-spring,
went back to organizing her closet,
picking off small pieces of lint
left behind by the washing machine

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2012

The nurse disliked going over to the old woman's
house, but they told her she required "Regular scheduling" ~
check her blood sugar, make sure she's eating,
and the hardest part ~ give her a bath.

The water temperature was never comfortable enough
to suit the old woman.  Every minute or two they'd fight each
other over the faucet handle fiddling it left or right ~
The girl, listening to her complain until it was finally
over with ~ her uniform soaked.

The case manager said Medicare wouldn't pay for another nurse
to help her, but the girl didn't think she had it in her
to brave the strong smell of ***** and feces much longer.
The thermostat set on 80 degrees, though outside it was 85.

Before she's given the chance to refill the plastic pill planner
the girl is told not to scold her ~ knowing ahead of time
the woman hadn't bothered to take the daily medications
that give the family a false sense of security.

"Can you tell me what day it is"? she asks the old woman,
muting the television decibels which are loud enough
to make her want to stick needles in her eyes.

Indignantly she's ignored. No matter ~ she knows how to
crush up the blood pressure pill, heart pill and clozapine
together, pouring them into an Ensure and realizing the irony in that.

"What's this you're making me drink? It tastes awful!" the old woman snaps. The soft reply, "Just a milkshake.  Please try to finish it."

"It's supposed to snow, you really should dress more warmly", the old woman says.

"I will, Mom. I will".

Written by Sara Fielder © March 2012

the small girl felt sick at her stomach,
fighting back the urge to ***** while wondering
where mother was, the fear of what lay beneath
the bed not as urgent as the more immediate
fear of when she’d return,

her younger brother asleep, unaffected she'd
disappeared two weeks earlier,
knowing their family seemed "different"
than the rest of the ones on the cul-de-sac

friends two doors down said they could hear the fights,
and weren’t allowed to play with them anymore,
so she concentrated on her times table,
depending on the safety of their outcome,
the answers fixed and unchangeable~
numbers were more reasonable than the arguments that sprung,
more solid than the Corelle she threw at dad

if he’d had better judgement he would have institutionalized her,
instead, the storm would pass as soon as she’d disappear,
demolition repaired, including the Toyota Corolla,
and her multiplication ritual grew up from one to ten

in her mind's eye the sums took on a new shape,
turning into days, then weeks, then months,
until she summarized that mother might not come back at all

Written by Sara Fielder © Apr 2012

I said
i like the smell of whiskey
and the whole cabin was filled
with puerto ricans and chile pepper
seeds scattered on the floor, a hundred
pots lined up on the stove with rouxs
and sweet syrups, masa mixed with
pork broth, shortening and garlic
the men lining the porch in
sunglasses and blue wranglers
going on about the rig or Virginia
or Hurricane Matthew--

what is it?
about running away?

I thought;
time passes so fast
I've clipped pieces from the past, snapshots i've unknowingly gathered
Uncle Dude three sheets out, standing in the kitchen
after you'd been drinking all day, your mom reminiscing in the corner
with tired eyes and stained fingers from wine,raisins, condensed milk,
consoling a drunk neighbor, (Florida State won earlier)
through the screen while you reclined in the sun or
the rotating image of your heels crunching through the
long morning grass.


I'd been sustained on quiche that needed no seasoning,
coffee creamer, cherry pie and the feeling of slipping bare
feet into boots, on quiet, on  
dark forearms and white biceps
the print of a little bird ring,
dark, brittle nights that smelled like cigars and Coors--


I've been trying to talk to God
all weekend but I think he's gone.
I think I'm alone.
I think I've run away.

I'm home, but there's nobody here.