by Sarah Carleton

‍ ‍One potential ancestor…comes from a word meaning “birdcage”…The ancestor of our word jail is in this lineage as well. —Merriam-Webster

In medieval times, caress jumped on honk,
and cajole was born. It looked like

a balcony for a finch but turned out to be
a jail for language. Over the years,

as requests for cake and feather hats
wheedled their way through its bars and

came out lumpy with innuendo,
some women forgot how to talk

in a straight line. They schmoozed as they
canoodled, jostled as they cavorted,

and the men caught on, cajoling with a
doggedness they believed was seductive.

I won’t mince words—I’m cajole’s‍ ‍
blunt detractor, irked by wiles

that bypass no. I wince at its
jagged sound—the way it flips asshole‍ ‍

on its ear and adds a fool, that forceful
second syllable seizing my tongue.

The origins of cajole may be vague
as smoke, but it needles, like

a splinter embedded in your toe
until at last you coax it into the open.

____________________________________________________________

Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Valparaiso, Rattle, ONE ART, and As It Ought to Be. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and she was a finalist for the 2023 John Ridland Poetry Prize. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.

by Sarah Carleton

We used to crouch in the hallway during hurricanes.
Now we lounge in the living room and respond to text messages:

Yes, we are okay. No, we are not worried.
From the couch, we listen to frogs ramp up as the wind dies down,

and we no longer jump at the grunt of a loose window
when a 119-mile-an-hour gust whips around

or flinch when a band of calm is punctured
by the bang of a transformer giving out.

We register the small silence when the A/C stops
before a chorus of generators rev like stubborn cars

around the neighborhood. Phones act as flashlights.
Bedtime’s at dusk—electricity is overrated.

As long as we have tortillas and nuts,
we can let lettuce liquify in the tepid fridge,

brew coffee overnight in tap water and wait.
These days we’ve seen chaos from lots of angles,

know which shelf to place it on while we figure out a fiddle tune.
We’re used to staying put while squalls

twist the treetops, and between the widening coils of storm
we breathe air sweetened by the absence of disaster.

______________________________________________________________________

Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Cider Press Review, The Wild Word, Valparaiso, Crab Orchard Review, As It Ought to Be, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.