Amanda Sandlin

A quiet promise has taken hold of me. Like how the trees are still bare, branches jagged blobs of navy paint against a March sky, but my animal body knows it—the light is returning.

11/100 Days of Seeing

I tend to think about every word I’ve ever said to anyone
and wonder if I cry too much over my dead dog
“No need to get lost in it”
a comforting thought tugs at my itchy sweater
“How much for a refill?”
“A dollar sixty after tax” says the barista with the blonde mullet
So I drink it
and choose to think about anything else
—how good the sun feels
warming wool on the back of my neck

4/100 Days of Seeing