ON LETTING GO
After dinner, we gather broken branches
hidden by raw honey grass growing
on the shore of our Lake. I split the grass
with my legs, revel the dry wood, waiting
to burn—the north wind carries your voice—
I hear you in the waves lapping the shore.
I hear you in the silence. Rumi says,
There is some kiss we want with our whole lives.
The wood tumbles
from my arms—into white sand and
I build the pyre like my father taught
me years ago: small kindling piles
beneath latticed branches, light from within.
My breath filled lungs feed the flames
sparks to life: carry to nothing.
About the Author
Sarah Adleman was born and raised on the bayous of Houston, lived on the border between El Paso and Juarez for ten years, and currently resides in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with her husband and dog, Bartelby. She was a Peace Corps volunteer in Bangladesh, an English teacher in China, a watch repair specialist at JC Penny, a bartender in a downtown Houston dive, and currently works as a Yoga Therapist specializing in Traumatic Brain Injury. She earned an MFA from the University of Texas at El Paso and recently received an Honorable Mention by Glimmer Train for their Short Story Award for New Writers. Her prose poetry has appeared in Kindred Magazine.