Poetry by Sarah G. Pouliot
was the last thing you said to me
before grudgingly moving upstate
for your dad’s corporate position.
A decade later, I sit at Fox Lake,
bare feet pressed into Florida’s carpet,
pondering your hatred for the color
of Spanish moss in cypress swamps,
Anoles darting across sidewalks,
the star-shaped fronds of Royal Palms.
My mind fills in the misplaced pieces
of your life like a Rorschach test.
One inkblot portrays you at college,
double-majoring in math and philosophy.
The next, you’ve joined the Navy
and married a juvenile sailor
named Moby, who doesn’t cuss
and sells dried starfish by the port.
I suppose I could look you up
and learn where time tossed you
like the rocks we used to cast across the lake.
But I’d rather imagine
you lounging with Moby,
listening to crooning crickets
on J hooks and the murmurs
of midges orbiting pine—
pointing out how, tonight,
Orion’s Belt is shining faintly
behind those clouds,
if you tilt your head just right.
With a B.A. in English, Sarah G. Pouliot’s stories and poems have appeared in journals such as Cagibi, Saw Palm, Timber, Relief, Ekstasis, and the Rectangle. She works as a nonprofit grant writer, where she partners with philanthropic endowments and foundations to fund initiatives that uplift women worldwide.
