by Jo-Ella Sarich
Featured on Life As Activism
When she arrived, the sun turned black
lead-rugged upon my ragged eyes
that marked the breast-pump’s watchful click.
But as she lay upon my chest
each night, the transcendental glow
the phosphor clock, the bobbing head
bred warmth beneath the surface rust.
America, let me tell you this
your hope that languished in the reeds
can still be salvaged, let her rest,
wide-cheeked upon your weary breast. And when she does
sprout legs, your conscience,
the slurry of this brash lagoon
heave her upwards, like a dove
to soar across the saline moon.
Jo-Ella Sarich has practiced as a lawyer for a number of years, recently returning to poetry after a long hiatus. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The New Verse News, Quarterly Review, The Galway Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, takahē magazine and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2017.
Image credit: Milada Vigerov on Unsplash
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