LITMIR.BIZ

      Hold Them Close

      Copyright © 2018 Sarah Agnew. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-5503-6

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-5504-3

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-5505-0

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      Acknowledgements

      Some poems in this collection have previously been published on the author’s blog: sarahtellsstories.blogspot.com, or in recorded versions at soundcloud.com/sarahtellsstories. ‘chase the wild goose’ was composed by request during, and as part of, worship at Greyfriars Kirk, Edinburgh, Pentecost 2016.

      I publish these poems with gratitude for the stories, people, and Spirit, who inspired so many of them, and who demonstrate again and again that we are only fully human with each other.

      now. a day.

      the sun shimmers,

      but today I cannot shine.

      the songs of the birds dance

      to my ears, but my heart

      will not join them, not

      today.

      the children play,

      but, oh today, this does

      not evoke, not even

      a glimmer.

      my blue eyes are but faded

      watermark

      today.

      my heart’s strings are stretched

      and snapped and smack

      the bars of its cage,

      on repeat,

      and repeat,

      repeat.

      my lips are a salt bed

      in the shimmering sun

      today, cracked edges peeled

      back on a silent cave,

      today.

      to breathe

      When I look at the glass and see

      the curves the world would deem

      unpretty, I look again, for in

      these curves are asides

      the pills have cast, a story

      and a struggle with unbalance and

      disorder;

      beneath them lies the strength

      required to crawl towards the light.

      These curves, this body is alive—

      conclusion not foregone, and not

      forgotten, the beauty

      of the choice

      A lonely fragment

      the edges of my happy wrinkle,

      burnt with the flame of sad, a light

      remembered in a darkened room;

      I had you near a short, sweet time—

      The End came from far, too soon.

      my happy is torn in many places,

      holes and gaps and empty spaces;

      you, and they, and here, and now,

      wrapped raggedness with sacred leaves,

      a holy cover holding tight

      for a while.

      could we but rest a moment

      longer within that blissful binding if

      this book could only be

      the only story in your library?

      but suddenly, or seemingly, it is

      undone,

      you are gone, and I,

      once more,

      am all

      the colour penitent

      purple teardrops

      falling from the sky

      purple raindrops

      make puddles in my eyes

      purple scarlines

      invisible, inside

      purple wine drops

      spill over all denial

      Dragon’s tears

      gay | gei | adjective : “lighthearted and carefree”

      is anyone lighthearted, do

      you think, at one small group

      declaring for all the manner in

      which we are to be happy?

      can anyone be carefree, now

      with humanity broken on

      the dance floor, in a happy

      place turned flooded bath?

      will anyone be happy again, smile

      again, laugh again? has all the gay

      gone from the world? or will

      it land in our midst, a giant dragon

      with expansive tail bending love around

      the mountain?

      out of the mouths

      1.

      On a Paris street,

      in a morning walk, they stop

      to talk to the camera:

      Papa, I am scared.

      Of what, my child?

      Of the angry people

      and their angry guns—what if

      they come back again?

      Then we will lay more flowers,

      my child; we will always

      have more flowers.

      2.

      In a home Down Under,

      on the way to slumber, they stop

      for a pressing question:

      Mum, what will happen

      when there is no more room?

      No more room for what,

      my

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