SARAH CARLETON

Space Junk

​

Imagine if we attracted debris like Saturn attracts 

ice rocks, each of us with a band

of cheese wrappers and useless flash drives 

always circling, banging into doorjambs and walls.

Surely we’d try harder to rehome old T-shirts,

finish our broccoli stems, and shop with precision,

taking only what we planned to eat or cherish. 

We’d lose weight, too,

just to lighten our magnetic pull.

On slow days, we’d stand on our heads

to watch all that chaff rotate upside down

like little portable circus rings

customized with our own receipts, apple cores, 

songs we’re embarrassed we once liked, 

jobs we huffed out of—with such diversion

we’d barely need books or movies. 

Sex and contra dancing would be tricky,

the chaos of colliding detritus not usually worth 

the effort, but what a feat it would be when someone 

finally managed to snake an arm between 

trash orbits and grasp another person’s hand.

Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Valparaiso, Rattle, ONE ART, New Ohio Review, and As It Ought to Be. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and she was a finalist for the 2023 John

Ridland Poetry Prize. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.