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About this poet

Born in Berwyn, IL on January 27, 1943 after growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, Sarah Getty graduated from Stanford University, and has a PhD in English from the University of Pennsylvania. She has been a Poet in the Schools, has led creative writing workshops for the Bedford Center for the Arts and the Bedford Free Public Library, and teaches the writing of poetry and fiction in her living room.

Sarah’s second book of poems, Bring Me Her Heart (Higganum Hill Books, 2006), was released to critical acclaim. Her first collection, The Land of Milk and Honey (University of South Carolina Press, 2002), won a Cambridge Poetry Award in 2002.

In 2004, she also received the New England Poetry Club’s Barbara Bradley Award. Her poem “Ciphers” has been set to music by Adam Grossman. Anthologies carrying Sarah’s work include Birds in the Hand, (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2004). In July, 2006 she lead a poetry workshop as Poet-in-Residence at the Villa Vergiliana near Naples, Italy.

She lives in Bedford, Massachusetts.

The Wash

Sarah Getty, 1943
A round white troll with a black, greasy  
heart shuddered and hummed "Diogenes,  
Diogenes," while it sloshed the wash.  
It stayed in the basement, a cave-dank
place I could only like on Mondays,
helping mother.  My job was stirring
the rinse.  The troll hummed.  Its wringer stuck
out each piece of laundry like a tongue-- 

socks, aprons, Daddy's shirts, my brother's 
funny (I see London) underpants.  
The whole family came past, mashed flat 
as Bugs Bunny pancaked by a train. 
They flopped into the rinse tub and learned
to swim, relaxing, almost arms and legs  
again. I helped the transformation  
with a stick we picked up one summer 

at the lake.  Wave-peeled, worn to gray, inch 
thick, it was a first rate stirring stick.
Apprenticed on my stool, I sang a rhyme 
of Simple Simon gone afishing 
and poked the clothes around the cauldron
and around.  The wringer was risky.
Touch it with just your fingertip,
it would pull you in and spit you out

flat as a dishrag.  It grabbed Mother 
once--rolled her arm right to the elbow.
But she kept her head, flipped the lever
to reverse, and got her arm back, pretty
and round as new.  This was a story
from Before.  Still, I seemed to see it--
my mother brave as a movie star, 
the flattened arm pumping up again, 

like Popeye's.  I fished out the rinsing 
swimmers, one by one.  Mother fed them
back to the wringer and they flopped, flat,
into baskets.  Then the machine peed 
right on the floor; the foamy water 
curled around the drain and gurgled down.  
Mother, under the slanting basement 
doors, where it was darkest, reached up that 

miraculous arm and raised the lid.
Sunlight fell down the stairs, shouting 
"This way out!"  There was the day, an Easter 
egg cut-out of grass and trees and sky.  
Mother lugged the baskets up.  Too short 
to reach the clothesline, I would slide down 
the bulkhead or sit and drum my heels 
to aggravate the troll (Who's that trit-

trotting...) and watch.  Thus I learned the rules 
of hanging clothes: Shirts went upside down, 
pinned at the placket and seams.  Sheets hung 
like hammocks; socks were a toe-bitten 
row.  Underpants, indecently mixed, 
flapped chainwise, cheek to cheek.  Mother
took hold of the clothespole like a knight 
couching his lance and propped the sagging 

line up high, to catch the wind.  We all
were airborne then, sleeves puffed out round  
as sausages, bottoms billowing,
legs in arabesque.  Our heaviness
was scattered into air, our secrets
bleached back to white.  Mother stood easing 
her back and smiled, queen of the backyard
and all that flapping crowd.  For a week

now, each day, we'd put on this jubilee,    
walk inside it, wash with it, and sleep
in its sweetness.  At night, best of all,
I'd see with closed eyes the sheets aloft,
pajamas dancing, pillow cases 
shaking out white signals in the sun,  
and my mother with the basket, bent
and then rising, stretching up her arms.

From The Land of Milk and Honey, by Sarah Getty, published by the University of South Carolina Press, 1996. Copyright © 1996 by Sarah Getty. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

From The Land of Milk and Honey, by Sarah Getty, published by the University of South Carolina Press, 1996. Copyright © 1996 by Sarah Getty. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sarah Getty

Sarah Getty

The publication of her second collection of poems brought Sarah Getty much critical praise and nominations for the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award

by this poet

poem
The deer—neck not birch trunk, eyes
not leaf or shadow, comes clear
from nowhere at the eye's edge.
The woman's legs stop.  Her mind
lags, then flashes, "Deer at edge
of the woods."  The deer's eyes, black
and fragile, stare back and stop

her breathing.  The breeze drops.  Light
shines every leaf.  She enters
poem
Old eyes, but wiser, says the Greek.  You lose sight of guide-
	lines: I before E, Every Good Boy
	Does Fine, Insert Tab A in Slot B.
Things arrive, at this late date, unlabelled.  All that book-

	learning a waste now--even your mate,
at close range, blurs, becomes a surface with a taste.  
Unlettered, you take
poem
Look! A flash of orange along the river's edge--
"oriole!" comes to your lips like instinct, then
it's vanished--lost in the foliage,

in all your head holds, getting on with the day.  
But not gone for good. There is that woman    	
walks unseen beside you with her apron
  
pockets full.  Days later, or years,