Poetry Suite by Marjorie Sadin

Editor Sam Preminger, Poetry, July 3rd, 2019

"Children aren’t safe on the streets anymore."


Poetry by Marjorie Sadin


The Wind

Wind flicks leaves off the trees.
The streets are filled with radios turned
up loud. The sky is black.

The moon pared like a slice of lime. The air
cold as a morgue. I walk fast so that
no one will follow me. Street lights blur,
leaving haloes on the sidewalk.

When I arrive home, I make a pot of tea.
You leave a message saying you’ll be home late.

I turn on the TV and there are more killings.
I still hear the wind rousing sleepers.
Children aren’t safe on the streets anymore.


The Root of the Tree

That night when the root of the tree is no longer the root,
when the wind has ripped it right out of the ground.

The tree lies on its side with all its root
a tangle of dirt and weed exposed to the cold.

After big rain, there is a certain calm. The tree lies still.
The stars recede and the moon stands still.

The root of the tree shivers

in recognition. The earth and the sky have been pulled out.
The tree lies on its side.

This night, the wild roots swim in the wind, the night is a long
river, the river is a long dream, and from the earth, the whole

tangled root keeps waking. This night

when the root of the tree is no longer the root, the wind has ripped it
right out of the ground.


My Dreams Are Real

I live with a man who pulls the covers at night.
I moan in my sleep when I dream.

He knows me like the sea knows sand.
He rolls over me.

I dream a woman entices me.
She is dressed in black.

He asks me where I’ve been.
I say where I learned to love death.

He breathes in his sleep.
It sounds like drowning.


The River Meanders

The wind shivers upriver.
The moon wakes up late.
There is stillness
and breath.

Tomorrow is conjured by today.
Yesterday, tossed aside.

They say life is brief,
but not for the waiting.
They say life is fair,
but not for the losing.

And at its inception
the universe shrugged,
didn’t have any idea
what it would become.

The river embarks
for its destination,
arrives on time
by the clock of the moon
somewhere in South Texas
where it meanders to the Gulf.

The sun rises,
roams over the river.
Grows tired and sleeps
in the cusp of the moon.

Something is startled
by the rustling of birches
and the thought
that everything that is disappears.


On Turning 65

My hair has turned white, though I color it brown.
I am admitted as a senior.
People give me seats on the metro.

I remember thinking
I would live forever—my childhood
riding a bicycle to the horizon.

My mother is in a stream.
Losing my husband will be like
going blind.

I have time to live. The bottle
is not empty. I get drunk
on what is left.


Header image courtesy of Dario Calmese. To view his Photo Essay, go here.

Marjorie Sadin is a nationally published poet with poems in such magazines as The Little Magazine, Blaze Vox, Big Windows Review and Jewish Women’s Literary Annual. She has five books of poems in print including a chapbook, The Cliff Edge, and a full length book, Vision of Lucha about struggle and survival, love, death, and family. Recently, Marjorie published a new chapbook, Struck by Love.  She lives and reads her poetry in the Washington DC area.







Sam Preminger

Sam Preminger is a Portland-based poet. Their work has appeared throughout various publications and they hold an MFA from Pacific University.