In November we leave behind flipflops,
open windows, bike rides on swamp trails,
a bush popping with plum flowers,
a papaya that towers from our compost pile
and we fly north like oppositional-defiant geese
to where bracing breezes knock at our gloves,
sunlight pokes out between high-rises
and gangs of blue-copper pigeons gather at the subway stop.
Two decades ago we couldn’t walk down Broadway
without chapping our cheekbones, but global change
has taken the edge off winter—no icy bits this year,
no snow sneaking under socks.
People stroll in the park, carrying coats.
Still, we open the phone a few times a day and peek
at the live feed of our living room,
turning the lens three hundred sixty degrees,
past terra-cotta walls and multicolored paintings
to glass doors facing the backyard,
where mockingbirds and cardinals alight
to peck at the feast we prepared for them.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 5.
Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, The Wild Word, Valparaiso, and New Ohio Review. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
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