Sandra Beasley > Quotes

“You are that moment before falling, the falling,
a whir of falling, a wail of falling, the sweet
thud.”
― Sandra Beasley, Theories of Falling

“Just to try. The smooth
surface resists, resists,
and erupts in my mouth:
seeds, juice, acid, blood

of a perfect household.
The way, when I finally
went sailing, my stomach
was rocked from inside

out. Little boat, big sea.
Handful of skinned sunsets.

from Cherry Tomatoes”
― Sandra Beasley, Theories of Falling

“Yes, I speak Dewey Decimal.”
― Sandra Beasley, I Was the Jukebox: Poems

“PARABLE Worries come to a man and a woman. Small ones, light in the hand. The man decides to swallow his worries, hiding them deep within himself. The woman throws hers as far as she can from their porch. They touch each other, relieved. They make coffee, and make plans for the seaside in May. All the while, the worries of the man take his insides as their oyster, coating themselves in juice—first gastric, then nacreous—growing layer upon layer. And in the fields beyond the wash-line, the worries of the woman take root, stretching tendrils through the rich soil. The parable tells us Consider the ravens, but the ravens caw useless from the gutters of this house. The parable tells us Consider the lilies, but they shiver in the side-yard, silent. What the parable does not tell you is that this woman collects porcelain cats. Some big, some small, some gilded, some plain. One stops doors. One cups cream and another, sugar. This man knows they are tacky. Still, when the one that had belonged to her great-aunt fell and broke, he held her as she wept, held her even after her breath had lengthened to sleep. The parable does not care about such things. Worry has come to the house of a man and a woman. Their garden yields greens gone bitter, corn cowering in its husk. He asks himself, What will we eat? They sit at the table and open the mail: a bill, a bill, a bill, an invitation. She turns a saltshaker cat between her palms and asks, What will we wear? He rubs her wrist with his thumb. He wonders how to offer the string of pearls writhing in his belly.”
― Sandra Beasley, Count the Waves: Poems

“THE TRAVELER’S VADE MECUM, LINE #7671: “IT IS NO SECRET HERE” Dirt, wrote a British anthropologist, is matter out of place. Drop a grape from bowl to table and we call it dirty. Drop a grape to the floor and it is trash. Bowl, table: these are ordering agents, ways to tell the functional from fallen. Skin, tendon: these are ordering agents. You want to kiss my mouth, but not the teeth inside my mouth. You want to hold my hand, but not the blood within that hand. There is a truth in you, but it won’t be the dirty truth until it tumbles into the air between us. In this city, there is always a long walk home in 7 a.m. light, high heels stabbing the subway grates. A walk home past gutters littered with the non sequitur of chicken bones, wings that once held a dream of flight.”
― Sandra Beasley, Count the Waves: Poems