Introduction: Sarah Gambito

I opened a melon last night and immigrants spilled out. Let’s make it more specific: I’m in the belly of the beast, if I am me. If there’s a poem within this poem, Sarah Gambito’s poems announce, I’ll kill its lion-honey, egrets on the rim of how you love me. I pray on my American xylophone, she writes, please don’t discover me, it won’t heal anything. I’m sick of pretending everything is a brierpatch hymnal inside the soldier. Like inside the anime. Surely I’m not interchangeable, my shock in the ghost of the guest of my boyfriend. We talk of jasper things in trees, love in love’s seed pod. I know other songs, I’m aggrieved, uninspired and writing my signature—what I’m capable of. With so much fruit, the cellar was confused, its habitat scares it, screaming back until it changes species. With a dream, a kingfisher like a farmtool in your mouth, Sarah Gambito carefully embroiders the sky, the skin, immigration, the radioactive, crawls fixedly over internal laws. Afterall, when God was a cup of coffee, she tells us, sometimes I think the words and daughters are sugar cubes. Are egrets, if I am me.