|| Poetry by Sarah Morgan ||

Track Seven

On a train to anywhere but here
Here is where the heart lives for most
My heart is always calling from a phone booth
In the rain
A black umbrella opens unto my chest.

How fast it trickles by
I'm trying to understand why
and where
and what would break first if I jumped
Most likely my phone booth

Mountains of graffiti, rocks, and hunchback fences
A three-wheeler
Yellow and red and forgotten
Among the rubble

There is a man behind me
A southern black gent
Talking to someone he loves
He's started humming something now
Gentle and of Georgia I'm sure

I want him to choke. I do.

There is a foreigner to my left
I don't think he can read this
If I knew any of that lover language –polly vu franfuck
I'd write… are you reading this?
He smells like an expired fire pit of dehydrated embers.
Like one or all
of my ex-flames.

I want his euro-techno headphones to explode into him. I do.

Diagonally; a stupidly beautiful young girl.
Slender tall boots that I would use to ride horses against gravity.

I want her to get pregnant, lost, fat.
Yellow then red then forgotten. I do.

And then me.
Among the mountains of pebble and gang names
with a shirt reading "can i hold you?"
Tears smuggling the luster from my cheeks
Turpentine to mahogany.
I only weep in profoundly public places
Where no one dare ask

If they did
I'd swallow hard
Like an 8th grade blow job
Like your first funeral
I'd swallow hard and tell them to piss off
Something pleasant
So long as I could blow my snots
Into their palm pilots
get them to really fly off the handle!

You see
There is a tiny retired maestro
Inside my skin
The grand orchestra plays on
With no regard for him.

He's squatting on track 6
With the other empty notes
Using playbills as toilet tissue

My poor minor chord friend…
I've taken track 7 again.

When I get to where I'm going
I'm sure I'll pull out a quarter or two
from a phone booth in Seattle
Looking for an answer
Finding only an abandoned G-clef

Dress in layers on trains
I showed up in New Haven
With no pulse in my voice
loose change
Stark naked.


Sarah Morgan has been writing poetry since the curious age of seven; winning her first Scholastic Arts & Writing Award in the third grade. By her junior year of high school she decided to drop out to pursue her career as a mentally unstable heroin addict. Now clean, but still crazy, you'll find the sweetest spots of her writing touch upon loss, sex, god, and trying to find herself through it all. Her confessional style of writing crossbreeds nectar with poison. She currently resides in Philadelphia, PA performing her poetry at various venues and wooing bearded men. She will be publishing her first book of poetry with Write Bloody, founded by poet Derrick Brown. Write Bloody has published the likes of Amber Tamblyn, Buddy Wakefield, and Anis Mojani. Sarah loves you.