Sarah Moran




Her last meal was a self-served bullet.



Sarah Frances Moran is a queer chicana poet living and writing in Waco, Texas with her partner and three dogs. She is the founder/editor of Yellow Chair Review. She dances to Selena in the kitchen while she cooks and wrangles crazy chihuahuas during her day job. Her chapbook Evergreen is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You may reach her at 

And I wondered how she went from Jukebox dancing

and smiles birthed from the pit of her belly to feeling

like this was the last thing she could stomach.


And I wondered if she fabricated that smile in the

backroom of her devastation.  The cold place where she housed

all the things she didn’t want the world to touch.


At 10 years old I only ever remembered how her smile led

the war against my own sadness.  How my parents splitting

and my father’s violence ran at the sound of her excitement

of my arrival, shriveled and shrank as we dropped quarters

into that music machine, evaporated when the riff of Footloose

kicked up and how great it felt – to dance and be free.


The divorce didn’t matter.  The large and looming expansion

of my world didn’t matter.  Just the music and her laughter.


At 10 years old I wondered how that bullet tasted, how she

fell so low to swallow something so hollow.   


At 33 I understand how sadness destroys the roots of where

our smiles grow.  How that sadness suffocates like a weed.


I get that now; 

         and I’m searching for a weedkiller that works in the

         depths of my personal winter.

© The Acentos Review 2016