Sandra Sidman Larson has traveled to forty-five of the fifty states, thirty-five countries, and all seven continents. Sitting astride the Antarctic Circle and sharing the experience with a seal was a high (low?) point in her travels. Along the way, she has published three chapbooks, two by Pudding House Press. Sandra has been a finalist for the 2013 Lost Horse Press’ Idaho Prize for Poetry and the 2015 Trio House Press’ Trio Award; and a semi-finalist in the 2015 Concrete Press’ chapbook competition. She is an active member of The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis.
All work
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
I knew Socrates was gone, but where are all the other philosophers, traders, criminals? And no pickled fish! …
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Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
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A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
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The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
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to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
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And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
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Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose