Below the Surface Underneath my skin, households live in my body. These are the ways I’m a neighborhood: teen bands play guitars in my liver, the twins nap in my hippocampus, give limp applause for the chorus line who meets lung-side Tuesdays at nine. I like the porch lights in my eyes, but it might be time to downsize before I lose what’s really mine.
Sarah Tate is a writer, a poet, and a life-long student of literature. Her work has previously appeared in Calla Press, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, LAMP, and Amethyst Review. She lives in rural Virginia where she especially enjoys long walks and contemplating things she doesn’t understand.
Grand Little Things 