Two Poems by Sarah Carleton

Banjo Lesson

We multitask before the flat screen,
me frailing with half a brain, my husband training
his right hand to have a mind of its own

as babbled sitcom quips bump into notes
and a laugh track stomps our dueling versions
of the tune, disguising 

any gaffs and gulps but also canceling
the bubble-and-plink, and when he stops to ask
when he should drop thumb, I say

just keep playing through the bumbling stage
and you’ll emerge at muted ad breaks 
a bit better.

 

 Throwback

Every day I feel more Victorian—donning long dresses,
pouring tea, stuffing each room with trinkets.

I picnic in cemeteries and knit lace shawls
and carry volumes of poetry.

When politicians howl like a pack of dogs and internet
trolls don’t let a lady get a word in edgewise,

I still my crinoline and give them
the hard stare of the civilized.

You who know me as an off-the-wall spirit who dances
in the kitchen, repeats rude jokes

and believes women should not be corseted
might scratch your heads,

not realizing I love the flavor of contradiction
on my tongue, spicy and tart.