Sage Curtis
Root Flare—A History
I. 1933
In Georgia sun, peach groves proceed peach fuzz.
My grandmother, just a girl, took a boy’s hand--
a second grade love so juiced, it lasts 66 years,
pours out two children they can’t afford.
In this family, forever means from before
we can even remember. Maybe it’s-in-our-blood,
maybe it’s the road--opened like the eye of storm,
our nerves, the knowing of not taking it. The women
in this family know all too well what happens
when you let go of cookie-sticky fingers.
II. 1953
Maybe it’s just that leaving was his love
language and being a launch pad was hers.
A girl born to childhood sweethearts doesn’t develop
a sweet tooth until both her parents are long gone.
She looks for forever in the habitual loosening
of her bolts, the greasing of her throat.
When the road called for her, she brought
a whole damn state west with her,
only leaving god behind. Her skin tells
the story of two sunshine states, two husbands,
two daughters alive, and two dead. She keeps
having chunks of herself cut out.
III. 2019
I never call the man I love my childhood sweetheart,
never tell him I use food long after
the expiration date. I dig my roots so deep
that the eye of a storm only tickles my teeth.
In a little yellow house, I grow a garden full
of things that can’t die because forever
means before I can remember and before
I can remember, my body learned
that habitual loving means the road is always
there. I keep cutting chunks of this story out.
I am lucky to be alive.
In Georgia sun, peach groves proceed peach fuzz.
My grandmother, just a girl, took a boy’s hand--
a second grade love so juiced, it lasts 66 years,
pours out two children they can’t afford.
In this family, forever means from before
we can even remember. Maybe it’s-in-our-blood,
maybe it’s the road--opened like the eye of storm,
our nerves, the knowing of not taking it. The women
in this family know all too well what happens
when you let go of cookie-sticky fingers.
II. 1953
Maybe it’s just that leaving was his love
language and being a launch pad was hers.
A girl born to childhood sweethearts doesn’t develop
a sweet tooth until both her parents are long gone.
She looks for forever in the habitual loosening
of her bolts, the greasing of her throat.
When the road called for her, she brought
a whole damn state west with her,
only leaving god behind. Her skin tells
the story of two sunshine states, two husbands,
two daughters alive, and two dead. She keeps
having chunks of herself cut out.
III. 2019
I never call the man I love my childhood sweetheart,
never tell him I use food long after
the expiration date. I dig my roots so deep
that the eye of a storm only tickles my teeth.
In a little yellow house, I grow a garden full
of things that can’t die because forever
means before I can remember and before
I can remember, my body learned
that habitual loving means the road is always
there. I keep cutting chunks of this story out.
I am lucky to be alive.
Biography
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Sage Curtis (she/her) is a SF Bay Area-based writer working 9-5 as a copywriter and after hours as a poet, performer, mentor and editor. She lives in a little yellow house with her partner of 15 years and the two cutest dogs in the world—totally unbiasedly. Her work centers on generational trauma and repeated patterns, especially passed between mother and daughter. Her poems and essays have appeared in Tinderbox, Cotton Xenomorph, Juked, Glass Poetry and more. Follow her on Twitter: @sagedanielle or Instagram: @sagejustwrites.
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