KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions

Sarah A. Etlinger

Entering (the world again)

The Mexican food truck is a darker blue this year
and festooned with icicle lights, because it’s festive,
and this is a festive occasion. So far, three black dogs
and two puppies, four kids screaming, and two red wagons.   
                   The playground is an amoeba of children and motion.
                   Parents pitch lawn tents and camping chairs
                   and on the side of the hill, squares of heirloom quilts,
                   old blankets, coolers, and more beer.
There are screams and cicadas, the skid of scooter tires,
and the gulp-zap! of tennis balls on the courts across the street.
Beyond, the beer tent and beyond that the bandshell
and beyond that the jagged tree tops crest the sky,
holding vigil.
                   When the band starts its first chords, dusk does too,
                   and the whole mess of everything we are seems to shimmer and stop,
                   shimmer and stop—like old home movies with bright and blurry light.
We are here, now. We do not know what we want
except to be here, but we are here and it is July
and we are ready.
                   And when a plane flies overhead,
                   it can probably see us too, all of us here, under this patch of the sun,
                   before it lands, before its passengers pour out and enter the world again.

Biography

Sarah A. Etlinger (she/her) is an English professor who lives in Milwaukee, WI, with her family. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she is also the author of 3 books, the most recent of which—The Weather Gods—is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. Sarah’s work has appeared in Pank!, Spry Lit, Eunoia Review, and many others. Her interests include baking, cooking, traveling, and spending time by Lake Michigan with her family. Find her at www.sarahetlinger.com or on Twitter at @drsaephd.
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions