Sandra Marchetti



I’m hoping one day to climb through my mind:

around donut-shaped crooks and a cavity-corridor,

to divide the world between those lobes.


I have always wanted to climb it,

for my toe to stick within the slipping loops

then grip again, like an octopus nearing coral


slipping its jointless arm around it and then

shrinking, shrinking into the sea.


Dillard says she can see columns of air, not

just the insects that live in them. I see the tiny

roses on my bed sheet—thousands—they might


as well be eggs of the octopus, or those holding

within the cargo sacs of the insects. I see

the roses sewn into foursquare and know


the brain can multiply, bring into being square

meters of light, or a just a pattern that leads

back toward no edge.


A rose blooms and lowers its neck, slipping

its scents for the last time. Anxious for sleep,

I fall to traversing again,


I don’t move: only the fingerless slips,

the soul, ribbons past.





A finalist in Gulf Coast’s 2011 Poetry Prize and Phoebe’s 2009 Greg Grummer Poetry Contest, Sandra Marchetti also recently published two poems in Phoebe and three in Nolos. Currently she is the “Featured Poet” in Spurt Literary Journal's inaugural issue. She has also written poetry reviews for PIF Magazine and has poetry forthcoming in The River Oak Review and Ohio State's The Journal.