Two poems by Sarah Fletcher


    The shouts


Somewhere, of course, someone is dancing.
No, no; not us. Door handles bark and women seem
Like babies. Moon. We hopscotch through
Prognosticating streetlights, light in their pockets,
Drunk and sad. The shouts
Prism into snakes of light and snakes
On snakes and light again: one day I’ll kiss
Your golden face in meadows green and happy
Be so happy. Drunk’s autograph, its moon,
Is too exposed; he signs an affadivit,
Carrying its kevlar to the door. Christ, 
This is so painful, Sam. Now: do we dream?
What can we do? We eat the saddest food
And hunt only, only when we are so hungry.


    Of Manzanilla and Olives at La Venencia


‘Of course, looking into the face, your face,
Grief puppets the fact before it’s said.
I see… O Love! How much more than
a cool drink you count me in… Once Love!
How are you now this circus mirror
Which I see, now, is simply: mirror
Of my own construction
And reflection, spawn from and breeder of
Unalchemical thinking, which is… thinking’s excess
Into which my vision must cascade forward,
And from which sight, I fear, has no return?’


Sarah Fletcher

About Sarah Fletcher

Sarah Fletcher is a British-American poet who is currently researching a PhD on pain and expression at Aberystwyth University. Her work has appeared in The Poetry Review, The White Review, Poetry London, and other publications. Her third pamphlet, Caviar, is to be released in March 2022 by Out-Spoken Press, and she is currently working on a novel.