Sharon Brogan lives in Western Montana and feels an abiding attachment to Southeast Alaska.  She rarely sends out her work, but has been published in Calyx, and has a rejection letter from The New Yorker pinned to her study wall.  Her work can be seen at her weblog, Watermark, and at her website, Oratory.

I am waiting for the sky
to fall. I am waiting
to be wrapped in its blue
cloak. I wait for this pain
in my shoulders to grow
into wings. I wait for
the one who can lift me
without effort. I wait for
the people in this book
to step out and fold me
in. I am waiting for winter,
for this dream to open
into spring. I am waiting
to wake up.

I sit in this room with
the other petitioners,
with the flat wood tables,
with the magazines
and their glossy pages.
I am waiting for my name
to be called. I am waiting
to be told what to do. I am
rising to my feet. If you call
my name, shall I follow you?
These altered windows
shed the sun like water.
There is nothing out there,
on the other side.

Poem © Sharon Brogan 2005-2006

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You are reading Volume 20, Issue 1. A Menendez Publication.