Sarah is an award-winning writer. You can read a sample of her work below, but to find out more, please click on the relevant links on the menu bar.



…après ma mort, il ne restera plus rien – Jacques Derrida


Today, I find I can see through my eyelids.
You are curled over yourself as if reading

but there is no book. I wait, counting the dogwood
on the curtain, listening for the telephone.

You sit in a winged armchair by my head
holding your elbows. I smell you: dirty and sweet.

I think of the way I might have said goodbye.
We tried not to speak of such things.

You turned and your hot face was bright.
I saw myself reflected in it as I left.


The room grows cold. I am not arranged in a line.
Lift me, please, from my crookedness.

We need to start again but it is always too late
and I am afraid you do not know how to begin.


Love, you surprise me: turning, dipping a cloth
in a shallow bowl, you wipe my palms in slow circles

and twist my rings so that everything is facing
one way. This is touch without touching,

as it always is. You are so quiet, sounds slip
from the ceiling. I am afraid of you, of your gentleness.

You say, nothing will remain, and I hear my bones
in your voice: At home, the dog will always be searching.