By Sara Wallace

A woman in the kitchen in a stained bathrobe
singing, her voice raspy as blowing leaves,
singing, her voice dry but the song sloshing, filling the illuminated room.
Because there were no muggers in the parking lot last night,
because she called in sick and they believed her.
Because the sun's shining on a chipped wineglass in the dish drainer making it sparkle.
Because a man with beige hair and a white goatee loves her and she loves him.
Slicing the hot hardboiled eggs on the buttery toast wet with delicious grease,
the steam smells like the dirt the hen scratched in.
Grateful to be about to eat a life:  no cancer, pregnancy, broken heart.
Looking out the window watching three small brown birds,
the undulate and glint of the telephone lines,
her hands translucent in the sunlight holding the rusted knife,
the day about to happen, singing.
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About Sara Wallace

Sara Wallace is the author of The Rival, winner of the Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize, forthcoming in 2015 from the University of Utah Press. She is also the author of the chapbook Edge, winner of The Center for Book Arts Chapbook Competition, forthcoming in 2014. Her poetry has appeared in such publications as Agni, Hanging Loose, Michigan Quarterly Review, Grand Street and others. A recent finalist for a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer’s Award and the recipient of a fellowship from the Virginia Center of the Creative Arts, she currently teaches at New York University and lives in Brooklyn.

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