Sandra Marchetti 


Perithemis tenera

Hover over me,
fat-beaded miracle.

Swell your breast
clustered between

red-tinged wings
in autumn nearly

done opening.
Scan the grass

one last time,
dry as a stone,

as a woman alone,
climbing the stairs,

landing nowhere. 


Of Late

The bluest feathers lie in my husband’s
eyes—bespeckled gold and green—
furrowing back young yet astigmatic.

His lashes flick as I preen
the gray at his temples.

What wisdom he has to grow old
now—for his aging to be seen—
like my grandfather who combed snow

at thirty, skipped dinners
to hum the microchip into being.

My husband opens each
lid—these, carrots now steamed—
aware of each meal and its meaning.  


Light Harvest

For the moment, things
                         growing and green,

a stay against
                         leaves that drop

ticking their last,
                         spent as clocks.

Old leaves leave
                         room in the Hickory,

branches soon brushed
                         in wintering dust. 


Sandra Marchetti is the author of Confluence, a debut full-length collection of poetry from Sundress Publications. Eating Dog Press also published an illustrated edition of her essays and poetry, A Detail in the Landscape, and her first volume, The Canopy, won Midwest Writing Center's Mississippi Valley Chapbook Contest. Sandy won second prize in Prick of the Spindle's 2014 Poetry Open and her work appears in The Journal, Subtropics, The Hollins Critic, Sugar House Review, Mid-American Review, Thrush Poetry Journal, Green Mountains Review, South Dakota Review, Appalachian Heritage, Southwest Review, Phoebe, and elsewhere. 


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