sara wagner

Sometimes, The Right Light


All of a sudden, sister,
I know what you are holding in—
let go of it. I want to keep
walking next to you.
In the dim evening, scattering
clouds race the semis above us
on the highway; do you remember
walking this road home before, thirsty,
remember stopping at the creek, the moss
like a body, a dead body—
tell me that story again, only
leave out the part where
I wouldn’t stop talking and you left
me alone in the tunnel, the great
stones, each one, a grandfather
turtle, beak open—this violence, a routine
crossing—creek bed lit up, second
floor windows yellowing the water.
I am a shadow on the landscape,
invasive. I want you to take me up
in the glass you dip in, catch me

As of 2016: Sara Moore Wagner is a Pushcart nominated poet whose work has appeared most recently in Lingerpost, Reservoir, The Wide Shore, and the Pittsburgh Poetry Review. She lives and teaches in Cincinnati with her filmmaker husband Jon and their children, Daisy, Cohen, and River (forthcoming).

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