I came at a wee hour
into my miniature existence.

I keep my hair close cropped
that my face might fit in lockets.

My heart is small, like a love
of buttons or black pepper.

On approach, I notice how
objects grow and contours blear.

That's what comes of nearness.
I have an ear for the specific,

as St. Apollonia minds the teeth,
and Magnus of Fussen, hailstones.

I dwarf gloom with my cachet sign:
one good hand conceals

my one good eye,
halving all disaster.

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Sarah Sloat grew up in New Jersey, where she attended university. Since then, she's lived in China, Kansas, Italy and Germany, where she now works for a news agency. Sarah's poems have appeared in Pebble Lake Review, West Branch and Rock Salt Plum, among other publications. Her favorite poets include Fernando Pessoa and Norman Dubie.
E-mail: sjanesloat at yahoo dot com
 

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