Endlessness

by Sarah Dickenson Snyder

 
I have never been tired of myself,
scared of myself, yes, worried
that I'm only a shell of original skin
and bones and blood, yes, but tired
or bored, no. I have a trunk of stories,
an infinite series of scenes
to sift through, the way I did
in my mother's sewing room, so many
small boxes to open, fabrics to touch,
her heavy pinking shears to make
the perfect zigzag line. That small room
smelled like hot cotton. There were no wrinkles
my mother couldn't smooth. Those metal hangers
making wind chime music as they waited for a shirt
or a skirt in front of an open window.
That ironing board where my sister and I
ironed each other's long hair. So much made
in a small space, a womb, its darkness for magic,
the seeds becoming a surprising garden.
How can anyone get tired of living?
All of us in our own version of The House
on Mango Street or The Odyssey or The God
of Small Things with paths to follow, people to find,
gods to implore. Look right there: three crows
at the tippy top of the naked tree—shadow angels
who might have a message for me.


* * * * *

Sarah Dickenson Snyder lives in Vermont, carves in stone, & rides her bike. Travel opens her eyes. She has four poetry collections, The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), With a Polaroid Camera (2019), and Now These Three Remain (2023). Poems have been nominated for Best of Net and Pushcart Prizes. Recent work is in Rattle, Lily Poetry Review, and RHINO. sarahdickensonsnyder.com