Here's the thing:  I've never had
My tackiness turned back on me.
The silver glitter, the blue plastic,

The sharp rainbow:  my very own
Rosy orange sunrise.  Suffocating
In the heat and salt, we spoke

Hushed about The East, and wished
That the room was really a dock
Standing in the olives and browns

of a silver tipped lake.  It was
Melancholy thenas final liberation
Always is, melancholy

Like late afternoon heat and distance
Like sudden rain
Like the curse of much requested

Sally Blue


finding refuge in the grocery store,
ears perked between the cabbage and fat, white
Sorting waxy apples, knowing the potatoes do not
have eyes,
I have forgotten how to be afraid.

I do know florescent patterns, expect
abundance, curse the wheel on my cart that
can only go forward by going in circles.

Sweet tricky smell of hope:  jalapeños and cinnamon,
rough vanilla beans, bundles of chamomile (manzania)
without time
for delicate steeping

Suicidal, I don't buy duct tape or study the confusion
of headlines. I wonder instead about ice,
dental floss, trial-sized energy bars.

The doors open and close neatly.
I push between them, cursing my basket,

Sally Blue
SALLY BLUE lives somewhere between Texas and North Carolina with her husband. While an undergraduate, a couple of her poems appeared in the literary publication of Bryn Mawr College but since then, she's been on literary hiatus. This is her first publication in The Adirondack Review.
The Adirondack Review