The Snow is an Intelligence Officer
It’s one subtle secret agent, the snow,
dropping like a soft abductor.
I didn’t know it had this many fingers,
this many keyholes and doors.
There’s never been a mission
so openly covert, such
a pouring on of camouflage.
Flush with this cache, I assume
a new identity. I’m going to wear
a sherpa’s cap and let my hair grow long.
The world’s a mess, but not this morning.
The snow has kidnapped my opinions,
absconded with the list of wars.
The world and I pass by
the bakery window:
we never looked so pretty –
the snow is that smart.
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
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,…Read the full bio
Issue 04 · April 2009
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Two poems by Jacqueline Dee Parker
- Two poems by Sarah J. Sloat
- Two Poems by Priscilla Atkins
- Two Poems by Martin Ott
- Magdalene’s Manhattan
- Two Poems by Michael Bazzett
- Two poems by Lily Iona MacKenzie
- Four poems by Suzanne Parker
- Two poems by Leah Browning
- Three poems by Hali Sofala
- Public Interest
- Three poems by Heather Derr-Smith
- Euphoric in Essex
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes