Ant Hills @ Amazon

Hello all! I have a collection of poetry for sale, here is one way to make a purchase, through If you’d like the link to another way to purchase this then please let me know. I will have copies in my online store, which will be available November 25, 2016. The details and description of this book are in the available at Amazon. Many thanks for the support! Love, Sarah

Here is the cover of Ant Hills, please click on the photo for the link to Amazon, or click on Ant Hills: Stories of Girls in a Group Home.


Update: Ant Hills Release is Oct. 30th

After a terrible fiasco in which I almost lost all of my final, edited work on Ant Hills I have recovered Ant Hills: Stories of Girls in a Group Home and it will be release October 30th, 2016 with a pre-order link available next week. This Narrative Poetry Collection tells the story of Girls living in the same group home, their overlapping lives are changed through the relationships they develop. This was based on my own personal experience living in homes, growing up girl, and healing through the relationships that I made in my youth. Thank you for your support and I look forward to presenting my entire collection of poetry and photography to accompany it.

Here is Cicada Goes Dancing, Pt. 5 of Book II.

Cicada goes Dancing, Part 5
Book II

danced atop a desk, sheet tied around my neck
arms ached from holding the heavy of brother’s rape
spine creaked, like the attic door
it clung to meaty tissue
vertebrae pirouettes, human suits we’re bound to, bond
with a motherless family; bastard boys
father blames brother blames daughter blames
no one. tired hair hangs
gently comforting shoulders
body bent, like cypress knees
who was handing out love and skipped me?
danced off a ledge, out of dirty window,
the day mother signed papers to terminate
mothership, wanted to ram my life boat into rocky cliffs,
longed for concrete to meet face, burn the edges of her beauty off my skin
strands of fire
frame hollowed heart-shape, chin points to chest
where a tuckered out cavity beats too fast
danced with pills, bottles full; doctor said liver needs time to heal
danced with a pole on the side of a road, late one night, fingers curled
around steering wheel, it’s been a hell of ride, fire fighters pushed their way inside,
metal bit into bone, soft tissue, hope tells me my scars add to my beauty.
danced with hope, from bed
to sidewalk,
to taxi cab
“we’re coming back, she says,
[don’t worry]. i wouldn’t run with you.”
she attached my head to neck, arms still stiff,
danced me outside of circles spilled with salt,
bewitched me into believing in something like myself.
danced me still, danced me quiet, hushed ghosts that’ve haunted
my auditory canals, danced me through late night vacancies,
danced me sober, danced me sane, danced me clean,
hope held my string bean fingers, against her soft brown skin
pounding skull rests on her tiny breast, sings me sweetly, “hey ho, nobody home
meat nor drink, no money have i none”,
she mapped out constellations on my shoulders, down my forearms,
to my index fingers, ordering me to clean my spot,
dismissing banshees’ screams that’ve stained my long lean frame. hope tells me,
“you’re stupid, you’re spoiled…girls like us don’t have the luxury to sadie hawkins with death”
-and this is probably true.

This is not the photo that will be used as cover, however here is a photo from the Ant Hills collection of photography.

Wings Alex 3.jpg

Update on Ant Hills…

Ant Hills will be postponed at this time, due to problems recovering files I’ve lost much of the work. I am publishing some other collections and work in the next few moths leading to 2017. I will be working on salvaging what I can of what’s left of Ant Hills and will be back with this project before long. I’m taking this as a sign that there was room to improve on the project and the story needs to be retold and reworked.

In the mean time I have handwritten poetry books and art work that will be available in my on line story November 25th, 2016. Thank you for your support and understanding.


Love, Sarah

Other Days

Hello All, I pray this poem finds you in good health and all of the love and happiness. I wrote/spoke a poem I’d like to share with you, this is about identity and American Society. Please feel free to share this. I have a collection of poetry available for purchase October 4th, 2016. I’ll have more details on this coming in the next two weeks. Thank you, Sarah


Ant Hills: Available October 4th

I’ve been tirelessly dedicated to school, work, internships, research, adulthood type things, and Ant Hills. Ant Hills is, by far, my favorite part of my “To Do” list! At this point I’m editing and preparing to arrange cover art and a few additional pieces. I’m happy to remain with Goddess Works Media Group, LLC. I’ll also have some updates on a few other publications and projects that I’m part of in the upcoming months leading to 2017.

Ant Hills will be available for purchase October 4th, 2016. Marci Sanchez, Goddess Works Media Group, other contributing artists, as well as myself will be posting links for you to grab a copy. I’m posting two poems from Book II and Book III of the Ant Hills Collection. Please feel free to comment and pass the post along. Thank you for support in advance and I’m really super excited about this, I hope you enjoy the dark twisty stories of these young women and appreciate the perspective.

*The layout, the actual structure of the poems in much different than is reflected below.

Ant Hills: Cicadas and Broken Peoples, Part 10
Book II

everyone has barbaric tendencies,
we’re all capable of horrific things, like selling overpriced
patent leather shoes, tap dancers would disagree
hope makes fun of me.
late at night she’s being mean, she’s been mean
just before she slips off to a dreamless sleep she
whispers, “don’t you know i’m in love with you”
her voice trails off, somehow we must find beauty in broken worlds
confessing love in broken words, parts of speech, particles
practices, synonyms, sampling happiness, pocketing sensation
attempt I: i tried to jump off the roof of my school and broke my leg
no one talked to me, ever again. father locked me up, “for
our own safety”…everyone wants to be safe.
hope said, “we all do stupid things”
attempt II: pills, popping them, paper pills, a love story
picture ohio, sherwood wrote that story for someone like me
for a year they watched me shower, poop, and pee
hope says, “don’t fucking touch my drugs or i will kill you myself…and it would be
lonely without you here.”
attempt III: stole a car, wrapped it around a pole, a telephone pole
trying to call a god who never responds to anyone i have ever known.
hope tells me, “you’re not asking the right questions”

on the first quarter moon, late last month
hope tells me a tiny newborn truth: i die every day.
the wind starts to howl, begins clawing at the siding of the house
she tucks herself into my bed, presses her body close to me
“can you just hold me tonight”, sometimes we all play the role of the broken peoples.



Ant Hills: Wasps Nests and Placenta Pills, Part 3.
Book III
your lip curls into a snarl, breaking silence
with nothingness, hallways have begun to split open
just like your vagina will
cervical walls will splinter,
back cracking pain, blood baby
birthed into fluorescent lights, screams
your groans and grunts, heavy breathing haunting your daydreams

“i read about women who take placenta pills, guess it’s supposed to…”
her voice trails off, like the flutters in your womb, fifteen seconds of fame:
full of baby, whispers escort you down school corridors,
invitations to homeschool for your last trimester: denied.

you long for the companionship, someone to share this pregnancy with.

your breasts smell of sweet sweat, vanilla, you drift into placenta pill bottles
imaging they’d be dark brown glass with fancy metal lids, labels that read:
PLACENTA PILLS FA DAT ASS, you chuckle to yourself

forgetting you’re a moving target, a slow moving target
you pocket your smirk, slip back into invisibility
you curse hollywood for junos and john hughes
moments that don’t exist

your body will bust open, elastic rebound theory,
shifting energies from baby, to body, to stir-ups,
to warm nurses fingertips, swaddled in blue powdered latex gloves,
you’ll forget about placenta pills, forget to breathe, to count,
to melt into your future babyless motherhood
to fade into your post-partem depression,

just in time to be a normal adult.

someday you’ll lick your wounds, you’ll meet a nice boy
to turn into a man, you’ll search for dried placenta capsules
in brown bottles blues, with metal lids labeled: PLACENTA PILLS FA DAT ASS.

you’ll be able to be a normal adult.

Domesticated Abuse


kansas became a state january 29th, 1861.
i was raised partially on
celebrating re-runs of the Wizard of Oz,
quietly whispering song of being lost
over rainbows,
trudging through the tedious task
of construction: foundation of concrete and constant conflict;
mother was nomadic, not with gypsy blood
father had deep roots, none had ever dug that deep, stubborn
for survival’s sake,

early childhood lessons in tough love.

we watched yellow brick roads become walls
housing our counted sorrows on
a television set, centered between twin windows
blinking like eyes that squinted through the early morning sun.
we’d begin our mornings with great expectations,
returning with pockets of lint and disappointment

in our house made entirely of echoes everything was always displaced,
water rings sat on night stands, stains from sleepless weeks
insomniacs hammered peep holes in farmhouse wall paper,
showcasing everything but naked ladies dancing,
that’s what 80’s horror flicks were for, misogyny was reel
and real was the fear that filtered
my walks
from the bedroom to the bathroom
during late night rituals.

mother kept tall tales on dusty shelves, thick spines
of stories softly read to a tribe of children they’d learned to love hating;
raised on splitting atoms and siren songs,

reminding me women can also love with hard kisses and furious rage
consuming, father wore his anger like medals of honor,
heavy on his chest. if the flies on the walls of our house of echoes
could scream they would tell you everything.
those years
slipped through rotten floorboards,
mixed by tiny fingertips into mud pies
pushed back into earth, pressed into plots
spots deep under our feet, watered seed
sprouts to feed future
need-our house of echoes will always be rebuilt
over and over again,
passed on to
future generations
like heirlooms.

Capital Hill briefing on Violence Against Women Act in Indian Country

IN the link above you will find current information regarding the Violence Against Women Act, and resources for Indigenous Women in Indian Country.



When You Were Raped

State fair summer rape memories, rushing in, uninvited-you were fresh
nothing more than thirteen, your tear ducts burn and fizzle with heat

remembering little more but the button
on your denim jeans digging into the skin on your lower belly.

Carousel wheel teetered at the top, kettle corn
warm on your breath, curling fingers around iron lap bar.

Later there will be gravel cutting into your knees,
someday you will be able to sit with your mother

over early morning coffee, black with no cream,
correcting her on pieces of your own memories.

They dangle from your hippocampus, from places you can’t see
drip dropping down, the moon hung high in the sky, starless black.

remembrance; like murky winter wash breaking dam gates, floods, drowning
your tiny seahorse with busted lip, bent backbone, fractured rib

wicked hands, clumsily stealing, they pull you back
to a carousel wheel teetering at the tip top.

You are always engulfed in partial pasts, teetering
at the tip top, teetering on the brink, balancing on the ledge, falling of the edge.

I wrote this poem for myself, it’s been over 20 years and I’m just now coming to terms with the way my rape was handled; by an officer, a school, a community.

Here are some statistics and research, at a glance, along with quick facts. It takes a collective, not just one voice, it takes all of us. We’re allies. Let’s stop the violence. It’s not just the rape, it’s how everything after is handled, forever. It’s the flood of self-doubt that lingers after weeks, months, years, decades, and feeling as though you might never be lovable…at least that’s what it’s been for me. I think we can all change this, together.

CDC Sexual Violence Data Sources.