Sabrina Orah Mark

“The prose poem for me becomes a kind of chamber with no way out… a kind of hunt, because what is hunt but a breathing thing caught inside the house or the body or the box without the possibility of an exit?”
― Sabrina Orah Mark

“where I fold and unfold my left arm into November, my hair
into my sister,
where the black-gloved woman plays my heart like a crumpled
violin,
where I stand creased and lusting for paper, where I have no
more dead lovers
than you, where beautiful girls are always asked for directions,
where I keep myself real, flirting with the ventriloquists,
where my father holds me like a paper doll, where doors can be
torn down
swiftly, where neither one of us is a miracle,

I understand only this:

It is lonely in a place that can burn so fast.


from "The Origami Fields”
― Sabrina Orah Mark, The Babies