person Sara Moore Wagner, three poems

Sara Moore Wagner is the author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Gulf Stream, Gigantic Sequins,The Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and Arsenic Lobster, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and was a finalist for the 2018 Edna St Vincent Millay Poetry Prize. Find her at



The rain spills in on us as we sleep
in the backyard, tented. My brother wakes
with a face cotton-soft, button-eyed, cuts
into me as our grandmother
does the most bruised tomatoes.
Says run, but we wait:
sloshing, mermaiding, our hair
and the flowers, the candy
wrappers flood into the yard,
vine. When our father opens
the trailer door he is naked,
his eyes rusted, and we are so wet.
When our father opens
the door he is naked
and will not let us in:
A heavy sigh from the heavy
bed. An uneasy dryness like light.
I remember emptiness, the look of skin,
and so much pillowing rain. My brother, still
a face: The only.



Grown to the peach
you can in the dark
hours of the morning, white
light from the ceiling, white
specks in the corner
of your eyes. Grandmother,
you are preserving this
ripe moment, and me,
as if I were still
that girl, you know
the one—today I asked
God for something
so sweet, to kiss you
as a moth does, to not leave
such a mark on the heart.
I spend these nights syrupping,
unready to fall. Let me be
harvested full in this heavy
kitchen, the sagging shelves
just strong enough
to keep me.



I pretend
I don’t remember
ever doing this before
and maybe it comes
true in some section
of my body, like
the underside of
the left third rib,
the Eve one. I shake
my head, no
and the motion
is itself a birth, a pink
child trembling out
into the open silence. Look
at it there, shivering
and sexless as every
single day.

6 thoughts on “person Sara Moore Wagner, three poems

  1. Pingback: 2 – ISACOUSTIC*

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