I had to raise myself, she might say not in a disparaging or contemptuous way but with her inimitable braided delight. How fun she made it all look to live in a rambling, ramshackle house, sliding down banisters in her striped socks. We all loved reading about her on the blue couch that seemed to sink us into each other, but no one more than my son. He wanted me to make him thick braids out of red yarn, clip them into his black curls with his sister’s barrettes. So I did, and he became Pippi for months, soaring around the playground in his cowboy boots, striped shirt, those braids stretched out behind him like red kite strings.
Sarah Dickenson Snyder has written poetry since she knew there was a form of writing with conscious linebreaks. She has three poetry collections: The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), and With a Polaroid Camera (2019). Recently, poems have appeared in Artemis, The Sewanee Review, and RHINO.