A day so slow my lids drawl, limbs rift from the mainland. It’s murder how humidity and 6 pm collude to pool the lips into a bowl, communion in a glossy yawn.
A swoon lifts me to my tram. I accept the swoon as chaperone; we’re lucky to make it home alive— what with our war and the shortness of breath that’s going around, the epidemic of impoverished breasts, my nerves ripped to bits.
We’re lucky to find there’s wine left from last night, and my pen pal, Luke, has sent me a poem concerning cunnilingus and the hydrogen bomb that tricks a smile because it makes perfect sense: sex and death and sleep— the three dear deepnesses.
I lie down knowing Luke is dredging atomic oceans with his bare hands; I can sleep knowing the dark holds its appointments dear. The whole ruined world can lie down and wait for it to be revealed which strain of pillow talk will come to smother us.
Sarah Sloat grew up in New Jersey, where she attended university. Her poems have appeared in Pebble Lake Review, Stirring, and Nth Position, among other publications. Sarah lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where she works for a news agency.
