Sarah Jewett

The Author Visits Sarah Jewett

Riding down route 4, it was possible
not to touch the handlebars until the edge
of the flower garden bloomed
over the front wheel of my bike.
I’d hide behinda kitchen door, listening to a man,
almost always a man, saying words like literature,
scholar, then I’d sneak past the tour guide to a child’s bed,
blue herons on a wall, curved heads,
reflections of eyes in windows searching down
to my brother’s shirt pulled tight across my chest.
Miss Davis cleaned the house daily, her brother, a pedophile
collected girls on his back porch like bottles, blue,
brown, red; their long necks kissing air
calling to me as I rode by. I knew nothing of poetry
only that the darkest maple bled
sweet syrup and long ago, on this road,
a writer found a bird and people came
from all around to view the white-blue house.
In her room I imagined Sarah, the two of us
joined together, covered by the shell of an egg,
yellow light streaming down, lace patterns
falling over our skin. I knew she’d be able
to identify cowslips growing
by the backdoor near the pine. Sarah
was the kind of girl who'd ride her bike
fast through a broken yard, call to her friends,
save them one by one like feathers
tucked in the pockets of her jeans.



*side notes

Jewett was most likely a lesbain, married once
but rumored to have "serious" relationship with certain young girls

she was rich, very rich and could write
without any distractions...like eating

if you google miss davis's name it gives you her telelphne number
which makes me think I should change it before it goes to print

I grew up in that libary...which is no bigger than my bedroom now
in the center of that house...