Cul de Sac
- Cul de Sac
Yesterday when tiny sparks started to fallon a tilted backyard in a very high valley,
I breathed in the air from the bottom withdrunk lungs and my cheeks fresh from
the awards ceremony and the pomp andthe jewelry made up by fantastic storytellers,
almost willed onto the smooth necks of women.It was almost Armageddon. The sly specks of
disdain floated through the air like dandelion dustso fine only you could fancy them, wrangle them
into balls and boats and tiled kitchen back-splashes of Roman marble, strong and big-boned.
In March we had stolen away. We ran aroundlike children with big bellies and cigars.
The stretch of the day was in figuring outwhat would come next, hilly and holy
vessels out of the valley, into the valley,apart from everyone in the valley and their
tiny tattoos with gray edges. Grainy meddlingat the end of long days and round nights,
poker chips stacked like little men in frontof the dealer with the combed over
hair and sharp glasses. He was a watcher,the kind of guy who would know you
even if you had never filled in the sheet,had never blanketed the street with stars. [End Page 199]
A parcel finds itself wanted by someone otherthan where it sits. Your finger sizzles,
an easy target surrounded by harsh red clay. [End Page 200]
Sarah Ghoshal’s poetry has appeared in Stone Highway Review, Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, and other places. She earned her MFA from Long Island University and teaches at Montclair State University. Her work is forthcoming in Reunion: The Dallas Review, Winter Tangerine Review. Her chapbook, Changing the Grid is available from Finishing Line Press.
