March 8, 2021

Sarah P. Strong

MY TIE

I smooth it down my shirtfront
between my breasts. That little hiss
a catcall almost, but one
I make for myself, the drag
and give of silk, the thrill
of the display like what a man
I dated told me once: the reason
for lipstick, he said, is
to make a proxy cunt of the mouth,
since humans are the only animals
to hide their genitals with clothes.
He was putting on lipstick as he said this,
becoming a woman as I watched
from my perch on his bed. Now
I walk down the street in my tie
and things happen, not only to
the swing of my shoulders, the lope
of my hips. Women comment, the men
look away. I don’t know that ex-
lover anymore, can’t ask him
what I long to ask him: if he ever wanted,
when he was through using it,
to unknot the silk of his cock
and let someone else slip it on,
this thing that was part of him but not
in the way we’d thought,
as the red of his mouth became
the red of my mouth
when we kissed hard enough.

from Rattle #70, Winter 2020

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Sarah P. Strong: “Sometimes I write poetry just to figure out what the hell is going on—a truth can sneak into a poem before I’m aware of it anywhere else. When I look at the poem ‘My Tie’ now, it’s clear to me that it was a step toward claiming a nonbinary identity and they/them pronouns as my own.” (web)

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December 15, 2020

Sarah P. Strong

AFTER 75 YEARS, SHE FINALLY GETS ANGRY

At first we did not know what was happening.
The tea on the porch table cooled several degrees
while she stood up, clutched
the scrollwork back of the chair. The lines
on her face arranged themselves in a way
we’d never seen, her nostrils flared
and the bird in the tree behind her stopped
singing. Someone, not me, took
a breath and then we were in it. It
was like a high wind, the way her hair
kicked up. We froze in our wrought
iron seats as from inside the house her pale
drapes sailed out toward us, toward the blackening
sky and the suddenly greenish light, toward
the fury of her gaze that was past
furious, past pale, past any flail of fear
we might fumble out, gesture.
Inside the thinly-wrinkled scent of powder a monster
had been sleeping. Her planted feet, the wings
of her hands, and when she opened the history
of her mouth her unshackled rage. It blew into us,
lodged in us, our throats, and afterward
we never spoke of it. Never, not even to one
another. Struck mute—we, who were witness.

from Rattle 29, Summer 2008

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Sarah P. Strong: “I am enjoying my unique status as the only pregnant plumbing contractor in Connecticut while hoping to finish my second novel, The Fainting Room, before my first baby is born. When not unclogging drains or writing, I bake and teach poetry workshops.” (web)

 

Sarah P. Strong is the guest on Rattlecast #71! Click here to watch …

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