the poetry that matters

Sara Jane Strickland

Sara Jane Strickland was born in St. John’s, Newfoundland and currently lives in London, Ontario. She has received a BA from Western University in Film Studies and Creative Writing. Her poetry and non-fiction has been featured in the journal Occasus






she exhales her weight

kisses orchid soap palms

with corroded legs

and a soft head


takes pills to forget

tastes metal

and let the water be still

for a few hours



in the back of her exhaustion

a tooth growing in                                                               













the fog has tiny mouths




what is that
a hole?
I ask myself
as I leak smoke from my sides

scurrying and worried
that my head is an open sore

save me from the lion’s mouth

I hear you say from next room
tired, I am
still settled sideways
like a hubcap
on the side of the road

I’m sorry, the flowers we left
have been dug up
they’re missing
nobody told me what
good grief was


there is the cigarette burn
on a memory

and it is not the lion, but the fog
that you should be worried about

my dear









warm again



find me in my room

I rise early

paralyzed in dust

with a nail file between my teeth

smell of blood and mascara

and the window shut


the crystal ball clears

seagull bones on a pile of flat rock

whistle in the wind

as I stare at the blanket of water

imagining you

warm again





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                                                                                                                 June 25, 2013