By Carla Sarett
(fragment, from Margaret Gainsborough to her sister, 1780)
that green-shadowed afternoon in our garden, a stranger hurled us into a well of forgotten coins. We huddled for days until we flew up into pewter air. Now, I lie on your bed alone and stare at wallpaper. It could be sky, it’s blue enough. Father told me of a new invention from across the ocean. A lens, you can see both near and far. I don’t need it, I see you in Mayfair in your furnished rooms. The velvet cushions sag; men have stained them. You’re down to your last candle, there is no fire. Your husband hands you his soiled cloak. You feed him gruel for dinner, the same as yesterday and the long day before. There are many hours before morning. You used to breathe so easily, my sister, back when there was air.
Carla Sarett is a poet and novelist based in San Francisco. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best of Net and Best American Essays. She is the author of one full-length collection, She Has Visions (Main Street Rag, 2022); and 2023 sees two chapbooks Woman on the Run (Alien Buddha) and My Family Was Like a Russian Novel (Plan B Press). Carla has a PhD from University of Pennsylvania.
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