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He became infant prescience,
He had to go so far ahead of me,
A strange and whispering comfort that brings,
One who was one with me in our growing,
Knew or still knows the bird that never sings.

Many times I had wondered, when in my loneliness,
If it could be that he still exists somewhere,
Only a question without perpendicular relief,
But perhaps it is possible that he still laughs,
Because he still resides in my question and belief.

I feel my closing drawing closer,
I feel it will be soon that I could meet him in my dreams,
So separate for so long, and our reunion means ceasing,
Our hearts once played their percussion together, and when mine stops we can meet in new grieving.
Good god, great grief!
Reflecting, absorbing, colourful grief,
I can see nothing but through your absolutes,
Look there to that leaf, so soon to be gone,
It is all our death, and beautiful, powerful, terrifying grief.
Much more beautiful this way
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
tonight she’s clipping her obstinate fingernails
healthy, hard and alone on her atoll of sofa
surrounded by a stony sea

automatically I look down; my deficient talons
at a loss and uncreative; thumbing the possibility
of courageously communicating with her complexity

******* the idea of getting close to her
beyond my standard compulsion to
use flattery, force a smile or be mutually inauthentic

leafing through the elementary school years
that predeceased her current level of intelligence
grappling with my empty handedness, and
finally locking us in on the folded faith of hopeful futures

Sara Fielder © Apr 2017
Rivulets of rain run off the
windshield wetting the tires
of my mandatory migraine
on a slick road to Memphis
The hours of tarred time warped
travel my graveyard heart has driven
a pilgrimage to rake away
a few years' worth of leaves
fallen on your ransomed resting place
where we've abandoned
you in solitude under the
cemetery sycamores with all
your carpenter memories
solemnly swearing to think
of you more often

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015
At the drip droppy sloppy
Good lake of luck naughty
Nice chaps on their rafts are all cooked
Sporting SPF 30 with minds flirty *****
And bag lunches girls want to hook
It's the coconut crowd
Faking more than their *****
On a ***** cruising through water jade
Keeping truth from the ****
That they try to elude
Through a few beers of tan middle age

Written by Sara Fielder © July 2014
Two asphalt patched lanes through
the plains bounce our transportation
like bunnies toward the lay of some lake
we wanna survey for fishin'~ just two
tumbleweeds reclaiming time, so we are
flying down the road and barely blink
at the rust bucket gas pump pit-stop  
hole in the road with 45 acre
land lots for sale on all sides as we
drive as dry as deadwood past
one car every 30 pastures
We left the 3 bladed Mercedes wind
generators Ginsu-ing wind
into sashimi current and a random
"Fireplace Restoration Specialist"
sign forgotten as fennel-****  
never knowing what might be over
the grain bin hill-crests next but, all in all
it was a spectacular day of espionage

Written by Sara Fielder © Sept 2016
Vicious disco lightning
razor flashes slash
crescendo matching mood.
My medusa hair the
tops of tree tentacles
squirming.
I become machine gun
martini rain rapid burst
pelleting internal.
Anger won't wash
off patio insult.
Sweeping finality is
a storm migrating
with its mouth shut
against caring.

Sara Fielder © June 2018
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