Four Poems

Sandra Marchetti



We’re warned all water drains to sewers.

In rivers, fathers who escape

the house wash hands after weeding.


The run-off teems the flow:

Dillard’s fish flashes

then dissolves like so much.


On the bank, men’s shadows

beam as black bears might

upend themselves,


rocks in the stream,

their furred mouths

gleaming with the catch.


            for A. B.


Lip the rivulet, cold,

brown, and old;


your glow glints from

the collapsed town limits.


I ride on toward my

anonymity’s wildness;


I roam the city

murmuring I am


young, my heart is strong,

and I can take it. 

 About the Writer
Split Lip Press

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, Blackbird, Southwest Review, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. 




My teeth break

the casing, all

vinegar and salt;


I swallow the sweet

bread, the ball-

park’s steam.


Pans of hot

water, mustard

on plates—grated


onions, please—

America’s game,

feed me. 



Your car drove alone in the dark on the drag and all I could see was the flat black of it—some fool tossing matches out the window—your bumper bright liquid at night, breezing to the triangled horizon. Made of milk from stars and headlights, I am the lit wind scribbling your car, the match marring the ground—a burned underpinning—