CONVALESCENCE and other myths | Sarah Françoise
Sarah is a translator and writer who lives in Brooklyn with her daughter and two cats. Her writing has appeared in Joyland, the Brooklyn Rail, Hobart and elsewhere.
I think of Astrea, a-shake on a bench,
too cold in a coat of blooming asters.
She serves a plate of seahorses for lunch,
in a hotel room, to Zoroaster,
then catches his mouth while it's given to air.
Two climbing flounders, (white curtains now drawn)
a noisy pasture, a night on the stairs.
It's night, morning, night again, and then dawn.
He checks out early, leaves Astrea the key.
Later, she walks down the same overpass,
and stops once to collect winterberry.
Breadcrumbs in bed and a line quite far cast,
and crumbs of a leaf: remember before?
Grazing the edge of desire, then more.