by C. J. Sage

For a minute she was open like a foldout couch. Then she expected something, and the room went to sleep around her. Moo is just what cows say when fog makes its inevitable trip downward, the ears of dogs perked up and stop signs too. Okay, she replied, here is my forehead. And smack went a powdery moth into it. She suppressed a vague urge and palmed it softly through a narrow screendoor tear. Down went the dogs to their tired blankets, and she saved a little something by touching their warm rears and whispering Go.




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.