Esther Sadoff πŸ”ˆ ​

We slip between the trees,

trees like curtains separating us from the world.
To be seen is to be magnified like the samples
of algal water we bring back to the classroom.
The boys wade into the middle of the marsh
in their rubber boots. We dip pH strips
into recycled test tubes, but I don’t know why.
I’ve never looked straight at a bug or a fish.
I can’t look straight at anyone.
I’m hardening like dirt drying at the water’s
edge where someone falls in on purpose.
Where someone drags themselves out,
socks soaked and sopping, boots spilling water.
As a girl, I know it’s good to be small.
I say Oh! and Wow! with gamine surprise.
When I walk away, my heartbeat burgeons;
a tadpole turns into a frog.

Author Reading

About the Author

Esther Sadoff is a writer and teacher from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Jet Fuel Review, Cathexis Poetry Northwest, Pidgeonholes, Red Ogre Review, Santa Clara Review, Wild Roof Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Roanoke Review, and South Florida Poetry Journal, among others. She is a poetry reader for Passengers Journal.