Sarah Allen was born and raised in Provo, UT, and in 2016 she received an MFA in fiction from Brigham Young University. She is the author of the middle grade novel What Stars Are Made Of and the upcoming Breathing Underwater, both from FSG/Macmillan. These books have received starred trade reviews, blubs from Gary Schmidt and Dan Gemeinhart, and Breathing Underwater is a Junior Library Guild selection for 2021. Sarah is also a poet with work in Presence, The Evansville Review, Quarter After Eight, Cicada, Birmingham Arts Journal and more. Sarah’s short work has won or placed in several BYU writing contests and the 2012 Utah Original Writing Contest. She is a regular instructor at writing conferences and community workshops such as Utah’s own Storymakers Conference, as well as Seattle’s Hugo House. She is currently at work on an MFA in poetry at the University of South Florida in Tampa.
Work
little red
little red
watch, daughter, how you look from left to right
a basket held in front of you to guard
your breast. Don’t look too close
at daffodils and remember
cleome looks so safe before
it bites. Is this how to tie a hood tight?
This is how to order well-baked bread.
Remember to be silent around trees.
But what if they speak first, maman? Maman?
This is how to grow a forest of your own.
Never leave. Ignore footprints in the mud.
Covering your head will keep you safe. Not
ever saying your name aloud is wise,
then nobody can lead you off the path.
But can’t I wear the red instead?
And now wherever you go
they will say, she followed him.
There is the girl who let herself be
swallowed.
Previously published in Cicada Magazine
Welcome
Welcome
Here's the spare bedroom
in my heart.
I've been keeping it
spare—uninhabited—for you.
Please ignore the worm, he's
just clearing
corners for you to crawl into.
Usually it’s just me
in here, listening
to echoes and
wormly gnawing sounds.
But here's an open
atrium, if you like.
Did you bring a chair?
You can't see the stars but maybe with
the two of us in here
we can count blood
cells whooshing by instead.
Maybe we can look out of each other rather
than out of windows.
Out through each other—
s windows and doors.
I am out of windows.
If we get trapped in here,
I'm sorry.
It's not tidy
but I've turned the heat up
and I think it will be warm soon.
It's taken a long time to decide
where to place it, but if you
will just step this way, there's a bed for you
to unmake.
Previously published in Cicada Magazine
Where Do You Get Your Ideas?
Where Do You Get Your Ideas?
At the grocery store, next
to the bananas.
Between G flat and A major.
Only after I’ve been knocked
unconscious by a falling anvil.
I pluck them like pinecones
from between raindrops, though
the sap sticks to your fingers for days.
But my best ideas—at night
when you’re dreaming, I send
my soul through your window
and steal them from you.
Bibliography
What Stars Are Made Of (FSG/Macmillan, 2020)
What Stars Are Made Of (Puffin UK, 2020)
Breathing Underwater (FSG/Macmillan, 2021)
Links
