Christy Sheffield Sanford
Hey, red wiggler, is this where you get lucky? I’m missing the party—
nightly necking and desecration. Mere coincidence? Finding the litter
of love and a trail of terror. Last week a smashed cross, the ruination
of an 1875 round-cornered marker for Annie Fowler wife of, died young.
Black and silver wrappers on the path near the railroad. I hear the whah,
whah, clickety-clack. Excite you? Excites me.
Ever notice 19th century stones break on the diagonal? Are you one
and the same—lover and vandal? What next? Tarantella on a tomb?
Then torture the one inscribed with a Keats couplet. Don’t touch those
Victorian babies, you pervert. You like juxtaposing sex and death. Lord
knows, I do. Maybe I’ll catch you one night writhing on the governor’s
grave just before you beat it to death.
Christy Sheffield Sanford lives and works in St. Augustine, Florida fifteen minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. She has won a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry and is the author of seven small press books including The Cowrie Shell Piece (Baroque and Rococo Strains) and The Kiss. Her digital poetry animations have recently been published by Open: a Journal of Arts & Letters, A Room of Her Own, Amp and Atticus Review. Sanford has work forthcoming from Cathexis NorthwestPress and Raw Art Review. A3 included her in “The Triangles” Issue.