by Sara Moore Wagner

I stomp my foot into the ground,
one, two, three, and the earth breaks
open like an egg. The viscous plastic
mantle, liquid, and I shake, shake,
shake, tectonic. Because you knew my name,
because you named me, I’m torn
in two, or I tear myself
in two, as some versions say.
But haven’t I always been split
between this world and my body, between
mother and father, between
sky and the center diamond
of this tiny planet: Diastasis
Recti. At night, I dance
around a fire chanting, “you will never
know me,” and by fire, I mean
the kitchen table I clear
into the empty trashcan, by dance
I mean conform to it. I thought
I was spinning this gold to weave
something beautiful, an elaborate wing,
thin and strong as chitin, sparkling
in the summer, handspun; but here
I am, caught now, trickster now,
and with both my hands, I’ll show you
what to do.

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by Sara Moore Wagner

Lord of autumn leaves,
draped on a tree like lights
or snow, or any number of temporary things.

God of pickled beets, red as the roof of my mouth. Oh you
spirit who dwells in anything red,
here is my breast, dry.

It’s not regular
to want something blotted out.

Leave me alone, shut the door. I want to sit here
on the floor, grow gills—
And when I sleep, my eyes
can stay open.

Today, when I was driving, I thought the blue sky and the gold
flowers in the dusk looked like some old drawing-room, some Victorian
indoor space. And then—
I felt less alive.

What does that mean? Everyone says it.
Less alive.

God of trees, Lord of beets.
Juice me like an apple, skin on.
Throw me into a basin of water and see
if I breathe.

If my arms and legs pull up into my body,
like retracted antennae. If I skid along the surface
like a stone.

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