Copies of All the Tiny Anchors have arrived! They are beautiful. It’s a culmination of over a year’s labor of love. You can buy it through the Sadie Girl Press Bookstore, Amazon, pick up a copy in person from me, or stop by Gatsby Books in Long Beach or Read On Till Morning at Crafted in San Pedro (as soon as I can bring them copies).
Kinda jumping up and down for this one! I am so thrilled to be included in a series of poetry by Poets Cafe (KPFK Radio – Los Angeles 90.7 fm) on immigration. This topic is near and dear to me in my teaching life, as many of my students are immigrants or first generation from immigrants. Recent news about the protests in Murrieta broke my heart. You can not only read my poem “Murrieta”, but listen to me reading it for you at this link!
My first international publication! I have a poem, “The Lost Vowels” in the 3rd issue of Parisian literary magazine, The Bastille, called Interesting Times. This poem is about my Parisian roots. You may order a copy online through their website, SpokenWordParis.org. I believe copies will also be available at Gatsby Books in the near future.
I am pleased to announce that my poem, “Daylight”, found a home on First Literary Review-East. You can read it alongside many other poems under 16 lines each! It is also part of All the Tiny Anchors, full length poetry book.
In the bathroom of that old theater
is where it started for us.
You stood by the sink
and we met eyes through the mirror.
I had cut my hair short,
dyed my blond hair black.
You were so heavy metal
with your endless platinum hair
and black suede boots with fringe
that made me resist you.
But I kept hearing rumors
that you liked my favorite bands
like The Cure and even Scattered Few.
You were my age
and the same height as me,
we were both on the threshold
of becoming women,
of defining our future selves.
Back in nineteen ninety-one
we’d come for the same reason
to hear the bands pour their hearts out
to bare their souls on the stage.
You must have understood it
the need to feel it raw
the bloody heart pulsing.
I looked through the mirror at you
in that bathroom in January,
the decade still fresh and undefined.
We talked about the band
the way we always would.
You smiled with uncertainty,
I smiled back in my arrogance.
I am working with my partner in poetry, Nancy Lynée Woo, on a project called “Gutters and Alleyways: Perspectives on Poverty and Struggle“. We are creating a perfect bound print anthology of poetry, prose, and art based on experiences in poverty. This project has been on our minds for several months, and we are now pushing it forward full force! This will be published under Lucid Moose Lit, a press focused on social justice issues, which already has new ideas itching to be born. If you have poetry, prose, or art demonstrating a perspective on poverty, please check out the link for more details. The deadline is fast approaching, July 15th!!
I got my proofing copy of my book in the mail today! I’m so happy with it. The cover is a soft matte, which I have been obsessed about, but wasn’t sure it would have. I love it! Just looking for any final polishing up and then ordering copies.
Another track from Anchors, “5:38”, is available to listen to on Soundcloud. This poem was also recently published in Carnival Lit Mag, Magic issue and will be included in All the Tiny Anchors, which will be available soon!
Holding Barbie up to me, you said
“My mommy’s in jail”
and broke the strong girl face
that walked through my door.
I pulled Barbie up while you
cried in your thick five-year-old legs
dressed in pink four-year-old pants.
In two weeks you’d be six
starting first grade. You knew
your letters and how to write your name.
How to write “I love you, Mommy”.
You said you were mad at her
for going to jail, for doing bad things.
In my foreign home, you laughed
at SpongeBob and played
with unfamiliar toys. You should
have been in Santa Barbara
buying new school clothes—
instead you were with strangers
in Lakewood Mall Target
buying clothes for a six-year-old,
guessing your size underwear.
I took you to a fair at the beach
but forgot to bring cash,
so we stared at the things
that neither of us could have.
We danced in my backyard,
blew bubbles for the dog,
and sang the song, “Whooooo
lives in a pineapple under the sea?”
They found the man you called
Daddy One—or maybe Two—
but you called him a number.
You cried when I told you
he was on his way. His name
was on your birth certificate,
so he drove from Santa Barbara
over two long hours.
He cried when he saw you—
you did not cry when you saw him.
I kissed you on your forehead.
You left with Daddy One
and bags of new school clothes,
back to Santa Barbara.
In less than five minutes,
I returned to my own house empty
of your laughter, SpongeBob still
on the Netflix queue.
9-29-13
Originally published on Ishaan Literary Review
Sarah Thursday 