Hobble Creek Review
| Sarah J. Sloat |
Ghazal at Ebbtide
I preferred the sweet whites of Moselle long ago,
sketching river reeds in pastel long ago.
Hours drowse and days languish; I retire alone.
Midnight’s an angel I knew well long ago.
The heat-leisured vineyards, the sugardeep wines,
all succumbed to the current’s swell long ago.
What was my errand, my ache, my aim? To recall:
like tracing rain that ran down a bell long ago.
On page 98, which begins the last chapter,
I press two gingko leaves that fell long ago.
Vow to return, and abandon the vow,
a turn no one could foretell long ago.
Inside the Little Picture
In the kitchen, I’m fishing pieces
of cork rot from the bottle’s throat,
as if a little care and precision
could cure the world of its decreptitude.
When the temperature hits 80,
I switch to white because
while I have two rivers running
in me, in summer I need three.
The third flows, as da Vinci says,
like hair. Mine plaits, glacial,
blonde as Sauvignon, braid traipsing
into whisker, turning drip to lurk.
White alleviates the heat,
strikes a fire the size of a pearl,
summons slumber sweet
as an infant’s arm, and that long.
Summer demands drastic measures.
Heat on, I switch to diminish,
maneuvering a sieve to excavate
the last cork bits, rivers dwindling.
The bigger bits of world crumble outside
without me, ice caps I can’t trap in
a bottle, in retreat beneath a ceiling fan
invoking scope scope scope.
I preferred the sweet whites of Moselle long ago,
sketching river reeds in pastel long ago.
Hours drowse and days languish; I retire alone.
Midnight’s an angel I knew well long ago.
The heat-leisured vineyards, the sugardeep wines,
all succumbed to the current’s swell long ago.
What was my errand, my ache, my aim? To recall:
like tracing rain that ran down a bell long ago.
On page 98, which begins the last chapter,
I press two gingko leaves that fell long ago.
Vow to return, and abandon the vow,
a turn no one could foretell long ago.
Inside the Little Picture
In the kitchen, I’m fishing pieces
of cork rot from the bottle’s throat,
as if a little care and precision
could cure the world of its decreptitude.
When the temperature hits 80,
I switch to white because
while I have two rivers running
in me, in summer I need three.
The third flows, as da Vinci says,
like hair. Mine plaits, glacial,
blonde as Sauvignon, braid traipsing
into whisker, turning drip to lurk.
White alleviates the heat,
strikes a fire the size of a pearl,
summons slumber sweet
as an infant’s arm, and that long.
Summer demands drastic measures.
Heat on, I switch to diminish,
maneuvering a sieve to excavate
the last cork bits, rivers dwindling.
The bigger bits of world crumble outside
without me, ice caps I can’t trap in
a bottle, in retreat beneath a ceiling fan
invoking scope scope scope.
Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey, and now lives and works in Germany.
Sarah’s poems have appeared in West Branch, Linebreak, Juked, and Bateau,
among other publications. Her chapbook, In the Voice of a Minor Saint, was
published by Tilt Press in January 2009.
Sarah’s poems have appeared in West Branch, Linebreak, Juked, and Bateau,
among other publications. Her chapbook, In the Voice of a Minor Saint, was
published by Tilt Press in January 2009.
| Home / About / Masthead / Submissions / Contact / Current Issue / News / Archives |
