Introverted
I’ll cast a smudge on a plaster wall, chin down with a flat brim to hide under. I’ll dwell on hands and frets, my black suit blending me to backstage, not like that dancer with yards of white taffeta too bulky for her grip, paused at a tilt or the sideliners swaying from the waist up, clapping overhead till it’s their turn to turn an ankle in a swoop of orange. I will sit in shadow and let my ears brim with riffled chords. The light that lifts the gathers of skirts will set me in soot. Sarah Carleton Sarah Carleton writes, edits, plays the banjo and raises her son in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in Houseboat, Burning Word Literary Journal, Avatar Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Bijou Poetry Review, Off the Coast, Shark Reef, Wild Violet Magazine, The Binnacle, The Homestead Review, Cider Press Review and Nimrod. She also has work upcoming in Silver Birch and Chattahoochee Review. This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge.
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November 2024
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