At my worst, I control the boundaries of my form, and yet, when divine, the self permeates the physical world. It’s true: the atoms of our bodies grieve each other in death just like a color doesn’t occur alone— but takes meaning from other colors. The moon was a changeable star that ruled men’s fate. Water was green and not blue to medieval cartographers. The complexity of ocher begs the viewer to grapple with it. We are swiftly becoming an indoor species. Yet, scientists know more about outer space than the Earth’s oceans. Humans brought the natural world into their homes to combat the rise of machines. Without us knowing, trees converse via latticed fungi. Gender isn’t something one is, but does. We are a vast assembly of nerve cells— the continents longing for each other.
Sarah Sala is a queer poet of Polish-Lebanese descent. Her debut poetry collection, Devil’s Lake, is forthcoming from Tolsun Books in June 2020. She is the founder of the free poetry workshop Office Hours and assistant poetry editor at The Bellevue Literary Review. Her work appears or is forthcoming in BOMB, The Southampton Review, and Poetry Ireland Review, among others. She teaches at New York University, and lives in Manhattan. Visit her at sarahsala.com.