This week, a poem by Sarah Sala.




Until reserved a gentleness for her unto its own kind. Her fed on farina with honeyed until. Before K, until was everything. K did not accept almost. Or everything but. They fought like fear and rapture rolled into the alphabet.

One day. All of a sudden. Not until forty-eight days passed. K became a k in her bed. Her became an s. It was nothing like two cellos being fastened back into trees.

K lifted until from the shower drains. Pulled it chilled from the fridge shelves. K held s’s hand while a surgeon removed a plate and six screws of until from her elbow. K did all this. Until got by on rose petals.


SARAH SALA is a native Michigander with an MFA in poetry from New York University. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Atlas Review, Poetry Ireland Review, and The Leveler. Her dream is to teach creative writing again in NYC. Visit her at for more information.

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