SARAH CAHALAN

A Fresh Look for Your 1970s Ranch


After years of washing floors and
brushing corners,
 
I find I like our objects better
when they’re dusty
 
When spiders embroider tents
inside our hallways
 
When ants are household gods
we feed at breakfast
 
and tables rot for lack of wax, like
logs that shelter bees deep in the forest
 
The house abuzz with company,
invertebrates, the roof caved down
 
beneath the weight of turkey tails and
agarics
 
Medicines, emetics, for years
we’ll be resigned to sneezing
 
Explosive puffballs leave powder
everywhere, ferns fluff out
 
in dappled corners, persistent
drips from the sink we never fixed
 
A bloom of weevils from the bags
of flour we’ve been collecting
 
Slime molds bloom on piles
of shiny magazines
 
And something has embellished
the pages of my chest with inky
 
ligatures of lichen:
travel, fitness, lifestyle, leisure 

Sarah B. Cahalan (she/her) writes about natural history, hope/grief/faith, the layers of places and how those correspond with our own layers as people moving through time and place. She has poems, current or forthcoming, in The Shore; the tide rises, the tide falls; Pinhole Poetry; Solum; and U. S. Catholic. Sarah is currently based in Dayton, Ohio.