Sara Sutter Poems




Poorland Daisy


I tried for greens in the hump of bed

at the foot of my place. Silver-purple legs of kale


grew gimp, leaves cardamom-tinged with damp,

except for limey wads of slug. How one hole dissolves


all the starts, but not at once. Staggered, haggard,

gauzy leaves stand their ground. A bullet-pocked flag


on its pole,—and then there’s my mother’s arduous garden,

her cultural revolution of black-eyed susans,


behind the stained and lacquered death,

I mean deck, of the house the strange red man


she’s married to built. Dumb flowers with one huge

black-eye-center agape all the time.


A garden seeded in conditional mud. One stem reaches

a small person’s height.








The boat waits in the brown shallows

where fingerling shadows turn sea lettuce tendrils,


green and soft, against our ankles—

This place where edges


of saline and riverine waters exchange,

where the foxglove, digitalis, lean toward the highway,


and plastic wrappers glimmer among

the waters’ luster. We push off and feel


the current, and the dry spring winds.

We have to hit the rocks to reach the openings.






Sara Sutter is from Pennsylvania where she worked as a child in the coal mines, before her brief stint as a nun, before her briefer stint as a butcher. Now she is a poet who lives in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Fence, The Awl, Windsor Review, The Portland Review, and various other artisan journals.






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