One Day a Year You Can Take Something Home from the Met
You have to have been born one block from
the Long Island Sound.
The museum’s insurance company requires proof
Louie’s was serving clam chowder that night.
Your parents’ bed would have had
to be, of course, your first mattress
and when you think back,
sixty years later, it is essential
you wonder, Where the hell
were my sisters?
Two crones and a gypsy
must tell of three fires burning in
black heaven, and a pack of
physicians are to dip nibs
in blood and sign-off on Connecticut’s faint-hearted
swooning. This is tricky.
Fridays, in Connecticut, a swoon
is hard to distinguish from a pass out.
Vodka goes down real easy
across the Sound.
I boiled the eggs until they confessed their sins
so many and devilish although how trembling
raw yolk could see so far into its hardening future
as to delineate transgressions I cannot explain.
I suggest our effervescented two merely acceded to
leading interrogation as they scrambled to be free.
I cannot be bothered with intricacy of huevo
or humanity. I must have my meal. I must live.
Sarah Sarai has poems in POOL, Boston Review, PANK, Threepenny Review and Gargoyle, and in her collection, The Future Is Happy, (BlazeVOX [books], Recent fiction in ragazine.cc, Storyglossia and The Writing Disorder. She lives an hour’s ride from her birthplace (Long Island), and a five-hours trip from her home (L.A.).