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Aleah Sato


Aleah Sato is a marketing manager, writer and co-owner of Ricksticks Inc, a visual communications firm in Toronto. She is the author of the recently released Badlands and the forthcoming Stillborn Wilderness (Pooka Press 2007). Her work has appeared in Nthposition, Adirondack Review, Wicked Alice, Blue Fifth Review and Eclectica. 




To dawn

This means letting go.
Like children
swinging into the blue,
we must trust 
that some things
are not worth holding.
The morning opens
to kiss the aches
and balm wounds.
Sundays are unforgiving.
A good kite floats higher 
than the rest.
A bee falls to subtle honey.
Rain dances on thirsty land.
If I knew what will come, 
would I stop this running?
Would I take it in,
sleep with it 
between us
like the baby 
we will not bring forth.



You can light the match
under the nightlight.

The note's been scribbled.
The dog's shut out in the cold.

Behind me there are miles,
sheets twisted

into origami swans,
the sound of footsteps.

Nobody saves grace today
with its minutes bleeding out

onto a prairie highway.
Let's get the past

behind us now. The ocean
swallows ships.

The desert winds beat
down the adobe.

And I have
come to reside

on this orphaned frontier
you call home.


Her poison apple

don't let me slip
the noose - lift me into the rafters
of your fury. hang my desire
for you by your desire for me.
hold it, the burden of tongues,
by its pink
aftertaste. don't let me
fall away from reach.
let me sleep
curled in the ceiling fan
that cools
your lover's touch.
let me eat
from her palm your raw
salted heart -
my blood pulse
is your blood pulse.
today, don't let me
leave with the mountain mist.
let me crave you
like a powdered debutante
for her jewels.
let me be rocked upon
this earth
by the troubled beat
of minutes. let me 
recite the words
you speak to women. 
don't let me be 
take this bite
of memory madness.


marriage organism


this is the mouth that would not open
to the words and the kiss
that would have broken your rib
in five places. this is the rib cage 
that houses your life organs:
the turtle shell,
the breath revival, 
the wisdom cradle. these
are the lips that dared not part
to my accusations. these are hands
that do good and evil - they are my enemy
lines. this is the bruise
spreading like poison across my mind, 
the un-doer, the duress
mistress creating many alibis.
this is your skin, your teeth.
this is the broken elbow,
the one that never healed. these are the tips
of nipples brimming with nothing.
in your chest, there's the vena cava.
this is your life and mine,
fluttering in this net of ours
for a season. this net 
could be the world. this net could
be nothing but gossamer.


The sculptor

one day you will appear
holding the veils of women
you've undressed,
who've undressed
for you,

the son you would not hold

bared flesh:
a newborn's
howling vision

the son you saw
jutting fist against canyon,
an endless echo
of need -

an apparition

one day
you will regret
the man
you could not carve
out of this stone

the archaeologist

your two eyes like jaguars
your two hands like bat wings
you let go
over canyons and gin stills
over museums
with the bones
of the dead you love
the curled primates
the prehistoric blind
fish - those rocks
like women
who've fallen 
in your path

into queens 
of snowy lands

of cicadas
and feathers

you come to bend
like a question

like blurred geography 
on burning sand
this hollow 

this broken sundial

you surround yourself
with the smoke
of Amarillo 
postcards mailed to me
the cryptic scrawl

of the already dead







copyright Aleah Sato