Sara Cahill Marron

The Queen’s Murder in Michoacán
    for Homero Gómez González & Raúl Hernández Romero


Found you, Monarch, 
slain in the grassland theater 
                                    of this emergency
ribs severed, 
heart blood-eagled 
            creating a pair of wings 
            royal red 
through            punctured 
flesh tossed overboard as slaves on a sinking ship 
bodies claimed for insurance money 
nothing but property 
           to the underwriters 
fluttering bank receipts over the sleepy battlefield 
                                   grass butterflies and fawns
                                                                      legs tucked below spotted bellies.  


but you, powder-winged
migrating South to escape soiled water
seeking clearer skies 
             fleeing frozen deserts for oyamel roosts 
             these towering Queens of the Forest cannot shield us from ourselves
from our combustion engines exploding the atmosphere’s seams
lead sliding through iron barrels
            as Cartel dreamers waving nozzles 
                                   emptying rounds
                                                             expiring bodies
                                  planting Flags 
                                                            that will not fly


still so lovely, Monarch, 
in your field of gold and black
           leaving the environmentalist, 
                       the anti-logging activist, 
the children of tomorrow
           nothing but the millions of wings 
                      lightly figure-eighting 
the sacred smog we take
                      as last breaths.

Emails, “After Making Love”, by Stephen Dunn

            Never ask the other what she was thinking
mail postcards emails text messages 
            give rides from the metro until one morning 
as the fog raises a weary chin from slick pavement
            I respond yes to propositions back to bed 
kissing the slope of your hip bones
           white tipped memories 
of a hotel room in Greenwich Village 
           Never ask her can I kiss you now?
do I want to come back 
           to that morning 
lose the space between thighs, collar bones 
           less rigid like the trees you write into poems
slipping into the gloved sky  
           when touched by Halcyon breath, 
searching for me on
           shores of sheets


           Maryland to New York now
mere miles apart 
           windows nailed shut
mid-March heat is pumping 
           we are panting
I sweat for you half-naked
           Not asking, opening the door.

My Mountains Could Care Less About You

My mountains could care less about you 
steel structures clinging
tendrils rising, curling fingers
desperate, lonely, clutching 
              dry and desolate 
you’ve buried basements and pools
trying, like only the hairless do, 
                                   to stay cool 
as if the heat is a thing 
                        you can hide from.
There’s no road between my breasts                                   blooming 
            tremble at the sight                                    billowing
            at the tracing of lines                         rising
                                  at the endless     rising 
blanketed Madrean Sky Island ranges
tectonic tumbling seams of the Sierra Madre
pine-oaks peeking out, 
ancient and alpine, 
mountain islands 
in my desert sea.


My arid desert to grassland cradles
peaks you’ve named with your expiring words:
Huachuca, Pinaleño, Santa Catalina
cached red spills of mercury tinted dirt
hemmed edges of tan, yellow, grey,
13 square patches of green
choking on dust. 


From 34,000 feet, 
think of me as a woman
pores leaking salt 
exerted, worked, squeezed 
ridged and wild 
bodied peaks climbing 
and falling 
pruning the stones
years of water
back to my seas.


I am the desert Hera 
sucking you dry 
absorbing your waterless body into hers
remanding you who come to harvest
to marvel
to take
back to metal coffins you built,
to the ground they were mined—


for nothing you build here, 
belongs here.




My brother turned himself 
into a sculpture:
performing an original creation 
on a freshly manicured lawn 
pulling his penis 
out of its suit-sheath 
he pisses in a high arc,
higher than culture
licks the urine 
leans forward, 
holding his tie 
away from the stream 
curls one lip up 
as mother watches him 
pissing on all her dreams.



Sara Cahill Marron, a relocated New York poet living in Washington D.C., is the author of Reasons for the Long Tu’m (Broadstone Books, 2018) and Associate Editor of Beltway Poetry Quarterly. Her work has been published widely in literary magazines and journals such as Gravel, Atlas + Alice, Joey & the Black Boots, Cordella, Newtown Literary, South Florida Poetry Journal, Golden Walkman, Lunch Ticket, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus, New Verse News, and others. You can read more of her work at