Sarah Payne

Updated: Feb 9

Avenue Street

Sometimes we are dying.

Somethings it is times inside us, ending into selves our bodies set up on the return.

I eye your know, my key-hands.

Your particular tooth, hair gap in the front two unconcerned with regularity, home in

the bone of your jaw.

I crane Oakland down this tar port. Eight months.

They seem never to move, but probably they do move, white steel grazing like future

cows in late-day ozone.

My go toes flanked by hills’ flanks keep.

What each wants to run one, small peaceful coin, exist tinted extravagantly with

dusk, blue, in love, and dying.

What I given there for it.


 

Future Tense

Future futures collect and shiv. A mass

amassing massively missives miss, miss.

She inverts where our eyes go, puts the sea edge

in the sky. Confrerity could not be this surprising, ideally.

The sixth extinction happening over pizza and beer.

We disagree late, later, belatedly but we’re here,

aren’t we here, right here. Persimmon crescents

float into hunger sugary and unnoticed

except by the eaters, who marvel. Chew. I start living here

four years in, accepting speculative fictions are

what happen and what I do. Big into

night baying more, more.


 

Sarah Payne grew up in mid-coast Maine. She lived in Louisiana prior to relocating to California, where she is a graduate student at UC-Berkeley. Additional work is forthcoming in SAND.

Recent Posts

See All

Vots de casament I hear a woman yell but she’s a bitch! She’s a bitch. I sit on the red sofas of the Monarch bar, again, a beer. La más barata, por favor. Brindo por mis tías. Many alcohólicos en mi f

THE ROAD HOME The road home is full of dusts, on your way back you would learn to take Those classes you fled from, lessons of patience, how to marry the chaos softly, How little could mean bounty som

how to banish a ghost ritual is just another name for the habits grief carves from a mourner’s tongue. you empty your mouth until you’re a rabid song knee-sunk in your mother’s garden. prayers a rift