GREY SPARROW, Summer 2011, Issue 9

THE BEST NEW LITERARY JOURNAL OF THE YEAR!

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 Poetry by Sandy Green

BEACH WALK 
 
My feet are paddles 
with baby toes curled

like shrimps— 
or prawns breaded and waiting to be fried,  
resting on their sides 
while the second toes hide 
under imposing brothers,  
the foot thumbs,  
tough leviathans that steady the soles 
and guide the legs 
as they dig into the sand 
and thrust me forward,  
making the deepest impression 
on the beach

always pointing slightly outward 
as if no one would notice 
that each foot wants to go its own way 
and they're not ready to be part of a team.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

REMNANTS

  

What’s left over

after the stories

are spoken,

pens are clicked,

computers turn their

blue faces to the wall

and sigh?

From the back of the throat

a hollow, arch,

as big as an elevator shaft,

swallows the remains of the week:

spare seconds,

driblets of rain, which

won’t fill a ramekin,

embers, but

not enough sparks to light a candle,

whispers,

and a few brushstrokes of color,

but nothing too bright. 

 
 

 

© Three Poems, Sandra Green

©Microsoft Clip Art/Photography

 

Biography

Contents

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 


 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 POURING TEA BY WAY OF TITRATION

 

He boasts

that he’s an expert

at titration—

a whiz

at judging the last bead

of solution

that causes a reaction and

neutralizes a mixture—

 

Back in college,

teaching assistants

would gaze at him in wonder;

He was a robotic titrator,

if there ever was one,

twisting the valve

just so,

measuring the concentration

to the ten-thousandth place;

 

Now in the mornings

when we share a pot of tea

and he asks, “More?”

posing the fat, brown pot

wrapped in a thick, tea cozy

over my cup,

I nod as the

driblets of tea

slide down the spout,

staining the hidden part of the fabric.