Sara Iacovelli March 2024
after Maggie Nelson and Aimee Nezhukumatathil
these days,
incrementally,
are getting longer,
three minutes more
each morning. when i
say days i mean the sun-
saturated hours. when i say
hours i mean this afternoon’s
walk through the streets next to
unshoveled sidewalks. when i say
sidewalks i mean where the pinks &
the darker pinks, the blues & the lighter
blues converge in corners of the 4:00 sky.
when i say blues, what i mean is the opposite
of seasonal affective disorder. when i say blues
i mean "suppose i were to say i had fallen in love
with a color." when i say blues i mean being drunk
on dusk. when i say dusk i mean that spell i fought
to stay under. i mean every transient thing that lasts
forever. i mean "the light here on earth keeps us plenty
busy." when i say forever i mean a geomagnetic storm on
the horizon. when i say home i mean nineteen hours of night.
Sara Iacovelli is a poet and a preschool teacher. She has gone to grad school too many times, though never for writing; she holds degrees in comparative literature and special education. She lives in the northern catskills with her partner, a very large dog, and a very soft cat. Her work has appeared in Barren Magazine, Sidereel Magazine, Monkeybicycle, and Eunoia Review.
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