Sara Lupita Olivares


it may have been a bone stuck in the throat

a painting of a meadow dead animals on

the road begin to change the way color

dims you from a place language practiced

without a terrain to think abstractly of one’s

body tracing north to south and back again


a dark stain on the ceiling
                appears in a way that the perceiver
too becomes a symbol
                its presence colors out
where violet weeds grow near an underpass
                I watch my daughter by the road
with a different sense
of violence
                the way a cloud when depicted
on the television appears small in its detachment
                from reality to want in that space
to know a figure
                in its harmless entirety

Sara Lupita Olivares is the author of the chapbook Field Things (dancing girl press). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, The Pinch, Apogee, Columbia Poetry Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she lives in Michigan where she is a Ph.D. student at Western Michigan University, and a poetry editor for Third Coast Magazine.