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Two Poems by Sharon Coleman

Surface
“I am the thought on the bath in the room without mirrors”
				—Nadja
Clear ripples 
over feet, legs
knees just 
bent, small 
hair and hipbone 
a circle 
where the belly 
subsides or arms 
press worn 
porcelain, shoulders 
shiver sea-
borne hair
I, a dream 
or judge, dip 
in, warm
water
reach up— 
A death 
has webbed 
the house,
covered
its mirrors, and
this room 
observes
a buoyancy,
my breathing 
away 
the silence
who was. 



unlit insomnia
strange as i am to earth’s new heat, birds 
warble outside the window of my unlit 
insomnia. their adrenalin joy courses along 
daylight a hemisphere away. they mate past 
midnight on a planet whose atmosphere 
wanes while its body’s heat waxes. strange 
as i am to my body’s new heat, i float clumsy 
in june bird trill. birds warble through 
my unlit insomnia as i’m seared into clay  
then sleep a dust-filled song of tomorrow.
Sharon Coleman

Sharon Coleman is a fifth generation Northern Californian with a penchant for languages and their entangled word roots. Her poems and blink fiction appear in Your Impossible Voice, Faultline, The Ana, Dream Pop Press, White Stag, Rivet, Berkeley Poetry Review, Ambush Review. She co-curates the reading series Lyrics & Dirges, and co-directs the Berkeley Poetry Festival. Her books include Paris Blinks, micro-fiction by Paper Press (2016) and Half Circle, poetry by Finishing Line Press (2013). She received a Luso-American Fellowship for the Disquiet Literary Conference in Lisbon (2018), the Brereton scholarship for the Napa Valley Writers Conference (2021) and was a finalist for the Jane Underwood Poetry Prize (2020).

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