by C. J. Sage

I splayed my lips on his window, ball of sun dropping a brightwhite curtain there. Toast was what my lips were then, Chop Chop echoing from beyond the dried nuts he'd been munching. Someone trotted along on cue—it wasn't me—I'm no flap-tongued dog headed for a finish line. The confetti glitter under which a childhood home gets buried rises under sighs. Soon that dog was pushed along in a wheelbarrow, the edges of her kick-the-bucket hammered. The whelps of her inner cogs surely had gone crazyblack from the stooping to track level. I pressed my lips to his window, yes, and the table folded under me. What luck and what a fiery bulb.




C.J. Sage C. J. Sage’s latest book is The San Simeon Zebras (Salmon, 2010). Her poems have appeared in Antioch Review, Barrow Street, Boston Review, Black Warrior Review, The Journal, The Literary Review, Orion, Ploughshares, POOL, Shenandoah, The Threepenny Review, etc. C. J. also edits The National Poetry Review and Press. In her free time, she tries to help save the world by advocating for animal rights, and she creates acrylic and mixed media paintings. She pays for kibble and other necessities by working as a Realtor on the Monterey Bay of California, so call her when you’re ready to move to the sea.