Sarah Ann Winn

Fig. 11: Two story brick building with double set of windows, reflecting halved trees and sky, disjointed. A girl inside would be invisible.

Fig. 13: A posed question. How would it look to the neighbors, with you up here til all hours of the night? Listed below in pencil are all the hours of the night, roughly erased, paper rucked up, torn in places.


Fig. 144: A manila folder, labeled Coventry High School Alumni Assoc. Contents: Five blue ribbons emblazoned with a gold circle. Cutouts of the number 50 allow blue to peek through the gold.

Fig. 155: A list of names and telephone numbers under class headings. A pencil line, drawn along a ruler, runs neatly through those confirmed deceased. Lines grow denser and more frequent higher on the list. A blue line is drawn through my grandfather’s name. The ink is running out, so in places the line crossing him off is almost invisible.

Fig. 156: A new list begun in another place, the same pencil lines drawn through the living. The line wavers running through my name.

           a modern tale

Near a mottled tree,
an anthem halted.
He renamed her,
enthralled her.
Not a hand held there.

Then her red month,
her other north,
mated and tamed.

Metal thorn handed,
he hard demanded other.
He made her heart dormant;
a matron, haloed,
leaned older and older.

Her man told her
“All done, dear.”
Her mad other landed,
the end neared.

Dear moth, hem death,
Hold on to the net.
           the lost arm,
           the heron armhole,
           the other molt,
           the nomad mane.

Sarah Ann Winn lives in Fairfax Virginia. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Apeiron Review, [d]ecember, Flycatcher, Lost River Review, Lunch Ticket, Massachusetts Review, and Rappahannock Review, among others. Currently, she teaches poetry in public schools through a Sally Merton Fellowship. Visit her at or follow her @blueaisling on Twitter.