The Lie
For an Artist Painting Loss
In the Men's Department at Montgomery Ward (1980)
Master
Blind Spots (1990s)
Breach Points
The Body Inside My Body (1980)
The Package
Wardrobe Therapy
Unbidden, it hit me: the urge to throw
my pound of rice, to hear
its bulk belly flop on the belt.
My whole arm follows through,
the way it did when I hurled a rock,
burst a window in the newest house
of our old neighborhood
when it was dusk and I thought I could hide.
Now you know—it was me all along,
though I lied when the builder
came to our house, sat on the couch,
across from my mother and said I’d been seen,
which I denied, head down and shaking.
I couldn’t believe my mother believed me.
**
A thrown life’s trajectory is a wild guess.
I walk slowly but never backward
my mother wrote on a post-it
stuck on the fridge. I’d like to say I follow
in her footsteps, but the truth is
to this day, I’m second-guessing
good. The builder left, never came back.
I threw down a gauntlet,
all I couldn’t hold: my parents’ split,
my lack of say, keeper of secrets
left holding the bag. My mother’s pound of flesh
exacted. Remember my heart,
heavy as stone, how it landed: thwack.
En plein air, you use blue
as acute accent, for your mother’s distant trees,
to inflect sky, or deepen nearby grass—
perhaps a shade like phthalocyanine—
light-fast, resistant to acids
and alkalis. Between brush strokes, you weigh
how memory filters truth.
**
A dream pigment, if fake, dancing
with copper atoms, phthalo—
say it like Thalo, a name fit for gods—
displaced Prussian blue in the 20th century
as the painters embraced a color unafraid to speak.
What’s done in love is done well,
said Van Gogh, a Prussian blue fan
in his day. Borne of cattle blood,
Prussian was blue accident—
consider “Starry Night,” to which he added
cobalt and ultramarine.
Ask yourself which animal speaks to you
most boldly of its shape
and brush its insides out.
**
Even the least pressing of questions,
burgherish or peasantish, cannot survive
beneath this most azure of skies,
Szymborska wrote in that poem
about the medieval miniature.
Remember your mother in late-stage disease
stumbling on blue questions in the color task.
Catalyst of argument, rich queen,
phthalo croons from her palette:
push me, parcel out my views
in darker values, sweet spots, stain.
Here at the canvas, you interpret.
In the dying light, you train.
In the Men's Department at Montgomery Ward (1980)
What size are you, what size are you?
You’ve outgrown the twelves,
caught somewhere between
the fourteen-sixteens, at that age
when a men’s small no longer
hangs off your shoulders. I remember you
last year, your mother restless
outside of the dressing room.
I’d just clocked in, and I fitted you then.
You left without anything altered.
Now you’re back for new armor,
anything to hide those raw insides from view,
disappear in aisles full of young men,
and I say you can win in this two-in-one NFL
zip-off sleeve jacket—shiny black
polyester-filled chintz, one size up,
cut loose, or skim the rack
for the last hooded, all-cotton FBI short coat
in red, white, and blue, not as thick,
does the trick nonetheless, thin protection
for your lean shoulders—
imagine the softness within,
a light cape, fit for a prince.
In story after story, Father’s dogs appear:
collies from the early years,
like Lassie, for the show I loved when little,
Dingle for an Irish isle his ancestors called home.
Mother remembers putting Lassie to sleep,
how us girls awakened to death’s meaning.
Then came the Rottweilers, Bishop and Bridget,
with their block heads, slobber.
Father fed them under the table at dinner, remember—
we all rolled our eyes.
He didn’t think we saw. Chad recalls
a hallway run-in, midnight bathroom trip,
when Bishop, Father’s favorite, growled
but stayed. Chad breathed, walked past,
no blood was shed. From then on,
between them, détente.
Bishop lived to 12, nearly 93
in human years, an old soul.
One sister notes Bridget was with us
a while longer, a comfort, though no one can say
how she died. In the silence
before we call memory to us,
we see ourselves in the dark
with the animal of grief.
for M.L.
We spin Mother’s lazy Susan,
bowls of roasted chicken, green beans,
rimming the cedar round. We dish:
whoever might have died, my job,
European vacation. Max, my new pup,
the harness not holding him back.
Mother laughs, breaks in:
Labs, she says. What do you want?
How to begin: hunger, inherited
longing. My need to share my life,
be led. See the world
through an animal’s eyes.
You and Mother nod.
You mention the tabby we’d had
as children. That terrible day, its cries.
I remember you looking up at me,
big sister. I went outside
to find the cat in agony,
Mother having backed right over it in the Skylark.
Stay in the house, I’d said,
but you ignored me,
and the tabby died its horrible death
and dies again as we relive
our first glimpse of the unseen.
We help ourselves to seconds,
pass the salt. I pray a little thank you
for not hating me, the sister
who couldn’t shield you.
In turn, you thank me for trying.
We tell ourselves we’re in good shape
paid up flush square
well-rounded grounded file copies of our warranties
and deeds when nothing’s guaranteed but loss
place post-it notes with little lines of dates and times
My mother is losing her grip but insists her strength
will return like a lost dog for food or touch
like muscle memory temporarily taking a break
that she’ll once again flip the tin tab on a can of soup
remember the microwave settings, the time
we willed our hands our hearts to access
all we could achieve before our bodies burst
into another iteration, calm river to a flash flood in a deluge
all the power out, recovery a world away
but up until then, we stayed toned, tuned in
to the first signs of malfunction
Later, I sort through my parents’ belongings
claim my due my father’s Tilley hat
my mother’s sterling spoons a pattern she bequeathed
downsizing shelf by drawer
less is more, she said please help yourself
One hope chest empties, another fills. Imagine nurture
cultivated yet innate the simpler way
we lived as children eating with our hands
Mother’s dishes now are paper plates most of her food
is finger familiar delivered
by the same man at the same time Tuesdays
Stay inside I warn you’re just one fall away
she tries to speak her sentence trails
Says no repeats herself starts over fails
convinced each habit imprinted will stay
The Body Inside My Body (1980)
Car salesmen speckle showroom floors,
drift periodically away for a drag
resurface, reeking of smoke
when they remember me circling,
say to holler if I need them, let me go
outside where I lose myself
in rows of color-coded mirrors
designating levels of trim. Men in polos
hawk best terms: low down, no interest
for the package with moonroof, premium
stereo. A door opens, I slide
into a seat with no memory, adjust.
Someone pushes my buttons
says I’m made for power everything—
steering, windows, locks, but I’m not automatic,
tire of test drives, turn
and toss their keys. They panic,
offer the last ditch take or leave. I take
my time. Once I burned through a wildfire haze
until I couldn’t see, pulled over
when a wind gust opened the highway
shoulder. Breathed exhaust. Later, I learned
the gasket blew. There was no quick re-do.
From then on, I ran my rides into the ground,
like the body inside my body: revved, hot.
Dreamt older models, sleek sedans,
like Cutlass, Skylark,
pure, stripped down.
full of pages on the table pays you
to cut ties, disengage from the company
with its host of benefits—
health, vision insurance, bonus stock
redeemable only in an incentive window
you peer through, curious guest, toward the plaque
to be bestowed at the office luncheon
to honor the group restructured. Imagine it—
change is hard, which goes unsaid,
but suddenly, you’re done
with suits, the C-suite orbit, global entry renewals.
Just take it, they angle in the fine print,
paint a win-win. Tell it slant, I quote Emily, spinning
the corporate-speak. In exchange,
they’ll buy back leave; most all your PTO
converts to cash. Think of those cells marking time
on an HR spreadsheet, what’s left
not to vest. No knots in your stomach,
a lump sum in your throat. Now, that I could swallow,
I tell you, read on to the invite:
a catered spread, last-supper style, in the VIP
conference room, where a manager will offer the company overview—
its founders, foundations, (aren’t you better,
having worked here?), better than a blessing, all they owe
to you and you and you—
a short program, no gifted watches, no
logo-engraved chairs. Consider
what’s hidden, Faustian—
you stay, you die in your Cole Haans,
air terminals and a cube your second home.
Did you know the moon is drifting away
from us, I say, as if you didn’t know
things could be worse. So long, cachet of moon-lit cruises
as holiday parties, but wait—
those ended long ago. We’re just now letting go.
What you discern in the dark is the litmus test.
Eyes dull from screening, we circle back to brass tacks,
mull how even we will break.
July burns as I meander blocks
down Simonton, crisscross Duval,
scan storefronts for displays of scant
breathable fabrics, a proper hat,
smelling like yesterday
absent my sister’s gift of a light jacket
with a little style for evening,
a favorite cardigan twinset silhouette,
perfect for the weekend workshop
I’d arrived for, minus my smart clutch, matching flats
tucked like secrets into my bag’s pockets,
before the flight south and the agent
reporting my luggage was lost—
although they never say lost, they say
delayed, then where are you staying, they say
as little as possible, can’t promise a day.
I miss my sister’s taste. Back home,
she hones her specialty of hands—
mends broken nails, soaks cuticles to soften,
offers the full massage—
effleurage, petrissage. Strokes always
toward the heart. And manicures: French
for a little extra, or a full set of tips
with gel polish, the works. She lengthens
and strengthens, fills whatever’s missing
on the side, sells lipstick that won’t kiss off,
which is what I’d like to tell the airline:
kiss right off, as baggage-less, I roam
these Key West streets for an instant
wardrobe, transformation, anything to be something
different for a day or two, a chance
to reconcile my looks with all my losses.
Ethereal, I elevate
to the Rooftop Café. Discover my appetite
never went missing.
Order seafood, my small solatium.
On my table, someone’s paired orchid with daisy.
Yellowfin never tasted so hot.
Silk separates: something cool
for comfort, I muse, mouth still on fire—
that’s the ticket, maybe in bougainvillea, my shade.
* "For an Artist Painting Loss," "In the Men's Department at Montgomery Ward (1980)," "Master," "Blind Spots (1990s)," and "The Body Inside My Body" will appear in her upcoming book, Bloodstream, from Mercer University Press in the Spring/Summer of 2026.
Sarah Carey is a graduate of the Florida State University creative writing program. Her poems have appeared recently in Gulf Coast, Five Points, Sugar House Review, Florida Review, Redivider, River Heron Review, Split Rock Review, Atlanta Review and elsewhere. Her book reviews have appeared recently in Salamander, Tinderbox Poetry Journal and the Los Angeles Review. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, including Accommodations (2019), winner of the Concrete Wolf Chapbook Award, and The Heart Contracts (2016, Finishing Line Press.) Her debut full-length collection, The Grief Committee Minute, was published by Saint Julian Press in September 2024. Her new book, Bloodstream, is forthcoming from Mercer University Press in Spring/Summer of 2026.
