Sam Collier


And don't we all crumble. And doesn't the rain

come. And nights when I roam this city, don't

the lights bricks trash restitch me. And weren't you


built of doorways, and wasn't my spine

flame. And didn't I find music in your ribs,

and were there rooms of riddles,


and did they smell like searching. Was it all

aisles in the dark. Wasn't the whole place held

together by thunder and dreams. Get lost in me,


you said, as if I hadn't set a knot of blackbirds loose

inside your halls, as if I could unlight a dozen fires,

or pour the milk back out of the tea. Already lost,


didn't I learn language at the root of you, wasn't

my mouth translating songs, didn't my bones hold

daylight. Was there nothing in my sheets but sand.

SAM COLLIER lives in Chicago. Her poems have been published in Prompt Press, Guernica, and Pure Francis. Her plays have been developed and/or produced by PTP/NYC, New Ground Theater, Horse & Cart, and Theater Nyx. She holds an MFA in playwriting from the University of Iowa.

Back to Issue 3 - Spring / Summer 2017