Sarah Scarberry

Body Like a Wishing Well

I like when the night comes early

like joy came easy to my grandad

Last night I saw a cowboy drink

a glass of red wine

that matched his lady’s and he smiled

She took their picture

I thought of music then

I thought of grandpa

and that every new song
I learn is a handmade wish

I make over and over

into the pressed flesh groove

of my fingertips

Through the slick stream memories

I ride a liferaft lullaby

cast out from the ghost ship

of all the versions of myself

that could not carry me

I set sail drifting towards the cosmos

containing the constellation

of his version of me
that dimmed as he died

And I watched it flicker

And maybe I see in the distance

A whorling of all of the wishes I have ever made

The lullaby beneath my body

My body this wishing well

tells me to take my time

but even now I am rushing

My fingers tremble speeding

across the keyboard

to cast this out like a fishing line

like we used to cast out into the still

simmer pond

Wishing for a catch to pull

reeling like I reel my

spirit bucket up

from the bottom of my gut

Whispering please please

Let this be the way.

Spirit Like a Seam Ripper

I know I soften the spirit of a room

              When I sink into the plush vulnerability

                            That rests between my clavicle bones

Or more that I mend easily the rips at the spirits

              Of those ragged strangers, friends, lovers, people 

                            Like forgotten teddy bears so worn with/by love

I find myself surprised at the texture that plumps

              Stuffed companions, the wadding that scratches 

                            Unexpected, the touch when opened, scrunched out

My sister had a stuffed rabbit named Emily once

              She didn’t know any Emilys or at least not well

                            Still she carried the rabbit with her everywhere

One day Emily’s love worn paw took an accidental dip

              Into my sister’s cereal bowl and hardened to milk crust

                            Bereft, my sister found she could no longer love her

I suppose there’s no mending a dunk into or way to know

              What disgusts us until it does with no easy way to return

                            And repair the thin veil between our love and our distaste

But the mending tires my finger bones sometimes

              But not enough to stop me from ripping at the seams

                            Of the tenuous thread we’ve stitched between each other

To dip the metal tip of such a tool made for breaking

              Into the soft fabric looking for what once bound us

                            To pull that binding up forcefully and quick, to rip

Afraid I stitched us together wrong, false, and crooked

              Afraid something stronger will come along and do it

                            Afraid, afraid, afraid of myself and my indelicate ways

But I’m sorry I got distracted, nearby there are babies making friends

              And it would be a crime to not to watch them totter toward and smile

                            At each other, a quick tie, good enough, a tiny bond between tiny souls

New.

---

Sarah Scarberry grew up in Appalachian Ohio, and their work is deeply rooted in Appalachian mythos, cadence and values. They currently reside in Colorado with their partner and rescue pup. They've worked in public libraries for a decade, dedicating their life to intellectual curiosity and the love of a good story.