Sarah Sansolo


Before birth a girl has two wombs,
two that knit neatly together.
No one ever tells you this.

I am unfinished,
top curved

in like a Valentine heart,
between two and one.

No one ever tells you,
a woman doesn’t know
her deadly organ

until it kills child after child,
until they come too soon or not
at all. I am lucky to know

ahead of time:
I am obstacled.
I do not hold.

I do not stretch to fit.


Owls swallow small animals
whole, writhing.
That’s the way you like me.
If you turn
your bed north your firstborn
will be a boy
but we are poleless, we spin
with your tongue between
my legs, my toes
You pull hair
from your throat.
Owls spit up bundles of fur,
bones included.

Sarah Sansolo's beagle loves the forest, so she'd like to be his little beagle friend and roam around with him. Plus that would mean getting to come home to a nice warm apartment every night. Find her at