Anna Oneglia © 2013 All Rights Reserved
I rub my hands together and the dust
starts up. Skin, lint and pulp. The infinite
sifts through everything, the crossbow first,
then the deck of cards. In and around the doily,
silt forms an impossible fossil. The frail spines
of books reshuffle, airborne and everlasting.
Shelving offers a method of forestry; deciduous,
it sheds a litter of paper and ink that time
turns into a diffuse souvenir. In the letters
I write, the word heart does not appear. Only
the lungs can sing witness, breathing it all in.
Almanacs and maps I’ve never opened come
loose to compose me. Dragging the dead
reading lamp out the door, the cord scrawls
its endless names across the floor.
Gacela of Ash
I have almost finished combing the white through my hair.
Pearl-spangled about the neck, smoke rising—
daily the flesh lessens to ash density.
Almost this ivory, I lay my light down.
A fierce dust, blonde becomes ash;
the wish is ash, spread.
I have almost finished sweeping
together these twigs snapped from nowhere, almost
the moon’s burnt clothing.
Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey and now lives in Germany, where she works in news. Sarah’s poems have appeared in Bateau, Juked, and Court Green. Her chapbook Inksuite is available from Dancing Girl Press, and another, Homebodies, was published last year by Hyacinth Girl Press.
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