Tag Archives: Miriam Sagan


by Miriam Sagan

my eyes full of salt
where is the mirror that remembers?
there is no ointment
to salve time

once you loved me
I’m sure of it
you love me still
I’m sure of that also

if the stars chart a course
or you chart a course by the stars
open your hand
no palm reader knows braille

what I saw but didn’t understand
what I didn’t see
and everything hidden
that no dove or raven found in me.


Psyche in Darkness

by Miriam Sagan

a stolen child
a half dozen
of pink lilies

in the leaves
even this flutter
can’t bring back the lost

a file
of missing persons
the blind mole
the earthworm

raise their faces
to the race
of time

as do you
pregnant virgin
bleeding grandmother
that gives birth
to its opposite.

West of the Moon

by Miriam Sagan

the motel window
desert spring afternoon

two morning doves
nesting on the top
of a parking lot lamp

I’m waiting
for it to rain
beyond the sliding screen

I’m waiting
for my childhood
to run off

on its bare
skinny legs
and grass-stained knees

dusk, and they’ve flown
off, a dry wind
in this drought

against the white pillows
my memories remain.


by Miriam Sagan

the column has a woman’s face
a serene expression that can bear weight

weedy and overgrown in summer’s deep
day embroidered with tiger lilies

a mystical temple, disused, abandoned
on a hill overlooking the housing development

a line of straight pins stuck in a tablecloth
she alters the silken kimono

from picture postcard souvenir
or a draped robe or shroud

one caryatid balances darkness
one wears the horns of light

fate snaps with her scissors
day, night