Two poems by Sarah J. Sloat

Poetry – Issue 4 | April 2009

On Stopping To Smell Perfume On the Way Home From Work

Do you remember Ecuador?

How our luggage burst like bulbs
from the underground cave
of the baggage claim?

A wrist circled in jade.

Have you ever licked rain from your fingers?
Imagine the drops falling faster.

Biofuel. Bioether. Bioephemeral.

Have you ever peeled moss off a stone,
then pressed it against you, inside out?

Dew, nutmeg and suede.

I’ve promised to stop on the way home
to feed the neighbor’s rabbits.
They are quiet, and have such cold noses.

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Sarah J. Sloat remembers collecting stamps before the days of e-. She remembers being allowed to smoke in the office, the back rows of the cinema, and on airplanes. If she could, she’d choose Philadelphia over New York, but for a long time she’s lived across the Atlantic perfecting her German grammar. Sarah’s poems have appeared in Court Green, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and RHINO. Her chapbook, “Excuse me while I wring this long swim out of my hair,” is due in 2011 from Dancing Girl Press.

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Literary Bohemian

Poetry – Issue 4 | April 2009