Hurricane Season
 

The crackling voice of rain
comes over the dead radio, throat
hoarse with thorns
and splintered timber.

Pillows of mud roll under the river.

I cannot shrug off
the weight of lakes
and mill wheels, just as I cannot
will a season behind me.

Knee deep, we’re all a little in love
with water, with daring
and death

is a stranger’s hands
arranging a suitcase in another room.

Storms fiddle with the telephone:
the static of sea attends the line,
white noise
where the river goes.  

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Sarah Sloat grew up in New Jersey. After graduate school, she taught in China for a year cut short by the Tiannanmen Square massacre. Afterwards, she rambled, and has since lived in California, Kansas and Italy. For most of the past 15 years, she’s lived in Germany, where she works for a news agency. Her poems have appeared in Pebble Lake Review, Wicked Alice, Juked and Third Coast. Sarah keeps a blog at http://theraininmypurse.blogspot.com.  

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autumn 2007 | kaleidowhirl
books and chapbooks from authors in this issue