Thrush Poetry Journal
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Sara Peck

Bas Relief

Whole buildings without you, if it’s raining the way seeds read WILD there 
on the label. Like being outside, it’s hot and what I mean when I say there are 
walls everywhere, flowers bend to sun but buildings stay right. The difference 
between stigma and style.

*

We give to houses, it’s quiet knowing the neighbors. At the most late and 
deep a night can go, the ginkgos still the darkest, immodest against sky. Some 
days there are letters that won’t come down. I meant we sat on the radiator. 
There should be a weathervane.




Artichoke Heart Of the World

with you the back alley 
consumes red succulents 
and chaparral is finally overtaking 

I write tomato 
practically everyday 

when cows lay on the west
where is the rain

birds of prey widen 
whatever is under them
us included 

in sap smell we 
wasted everything 

on the way down-
shore cows and a tent 

eating sea scrub 

I cried we touched Chicago 
a small missing in the Midwest 

arranges the inside 
of my knees like a bouquet 
recovers the exposed bulbs 

and it’s not that we are better
there it’s that we are aimless




Finite Remorses

I swear your wooden heart

you make everyone else 

everyone else 

a thrave can be 

any number of measurements 

and I am the smaller 

vegetables 

we being all at sea 

this is starting

with a shovel




Morris Island

The sand being difficult I wait for the washout. Beach spread atmosphere and is 
anyone missing a boat. All left of this one island a lighthouse. I can see breakers still 
break ordinary against it. We are still people who need light. Rotating landless, light 
churning up geology and is it appropriate to discuss where the sand goes next. 

*

If I asked you to stop the wear, I know I’m not supposed to nurse your west coast 
flaking toward Japan. Sandbars in your chest, the wind ignites a fever. To find the 
fire. We have to rebury the boats.




Yet In Flower & Not Cut Down

See my eyelids of morning almost transparent, but I’m not looking back at you, blinds slice 
the light upward, bleach the whole ceiling bright and maybe this is where 

the snow hides, in your sleep mouth

fill it all with snow, see what I can sleep through. In the longest waves are so many dreams, 
countless amounts of dreams, all too heavy to remember, see the wind draw up leaf and stick 
shadows, see we have a constellation happening, you

see my calamity in the wrinkles and if suddenly I am awake 

let me gather up my breath before we go




Sara Peck lives in Charleston, SC. She sells used books, teaches middle school, and makes sorbet. Her work is now or forthcoming with OmniVerse, Versal, and Parcel, among others. 




Return to July 2014 Edition