South Africa

I hate the persistence of footsteps
and the dust that chokes up
in gulps when crossing the land
that covers the diamond mines.
Particular boots are my fancy.
Rubber heels work best on wet
asphalt, and black is a color
that compliments abruptness.
I have walked over fields,
spelunked through hardscrabble
on my way to the city.
I don’t like the sound of rubber
on fungus, nor the sandal that thwacks
like more threatening leathers.
Mostly I like to slice my ankles
through weeping love grass, passive
grass all dewed and delicious,
shifty grass without
a damned thing to cry about.

About the author

Sarah J. Sloat splits her time between Frankfurt and Barcelona, where she works as a news editor. Her book of visual poetry, Hotel Almighty,…

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Issue 07 · November 2009

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