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About this poet

Sarah Gambito is the author of Delivered (Persea Books, 2009). She teaches at Fordham University and lives in New York.

Hunger

Sarah Gambito

I had a canoe that took me into the forest I read about. It was fleet and I asked no questions. I saw the careless embroidery of the sky above me. I was small. I was embracing. And I was dear all my life. My instrument is silent. I never learned to play. But it sits poised in my arms like an amber deer that I'll give my life for. What does it sound like? Why haven't I tried?

She crept into my arms like a red flower a stranger gives me. She is tame and soft. In a low voice, I tell her stories of when I was a girl. I bring her fruit from the brook of my own glad tidings. I overflow and I almost forget her. My hair is wet and I feel I can be alone. I know other songs. But what about my deer? She's sleeping. I fit an arrow through my bow. I kill so she eats. She says if only I'd been a better mother.

From Delivered by Sarah Gambito. Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Gambito. Used by permission of Persea Books, Inc. (New York). All rights reserved.

From Delivered by Sarah Gambito. Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Gambito. Used by permission of Persea Books, Inc. (New York). All rights reserved.

Sarah Gambito

Sarah Gambito

Sarah Gambito is the author of Delivered (Persea Books, 2009). She teaches at Fordham University and lives in New York.

by this poet

poem

How much our hands are God’s

to be running fingers over braille cities.

We are this hand pushed through our womb.

Weeping with each other’s blood in our eyes.

I dreamed that I slept with the light on.

I was asleep in my mother’s bed because my father was out to sea

and my claim

poem
I want to lick someone 

with an antelope for a head.

A whole-person-boxer for a fist.

Circulatory, fruited over 

nostalgia to overcome me like

a truck I'll drive over his body 

while he reaches for a 

telephonic breast.  The way gods 

do when they create 

the first animal cracker

steams of existence.
poem
I'm looking for the good robin of everlasting sewing.

Easy as a bed to bed.

And his words are mints.

My shock in the ghost of the guest of my boyfriend.

First there is the Father.

He would not like me to tell you about him.

He is punching holes right now.  Saying petit, petit, petit.

Garbled—he can seem