H Like a Talisman 

Growing up, I had a friend, Sara with no H, 
but that was never my name.

Mine had extra script clinging to the end
like a premonition, an icy worry,

but a kind of ward too—H like a pitchfork
pointed at the boy who pulled my hair 

and the girl who invited me to a sleepover
then pretended I wasn’t there.

That fifth letter changed the vibe,
altering the gap on the right and adding

protection, like a floatie to hold me 
above water, toes upward, 

face to the blue sky.
On dry land, H was a flying buttress

that let the rest of my name twirl like garlic 
scapes—a square room for my spin 

and freefall—its sturdy angles balancing
the curvier letters.

Aloud, it was a nonsound, an aspiration 
to ground two breathy syllables, 

a silent ancestral consonant—
I was not smooth Art Deco 

sans serif Sara but the ancient one with 
throaty shadow still in place.

SARAH CARLETON

Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including ONE ART, Valparaiso Poetry Review, SWWIM, and Rattle. Sarah’s poems have received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.