by Sarah J. Sloat
To make the sound of pity, he rakes his hair
with a pine branch; he freezes
ice cubes.
To evoke spite, he smashes two patches of corduroy together
in a wood
far away
without a soul in sight.
To simulate folly, he rustles a boa of tape yanked
from a cassette around his shoulders; he gives up
smoking.
So what about silence, he asks, waggling a rubber hammer.
For fear, he mounts two live flies onto a photo of the ocean.
He is writing a manual in which nearness
wields a long pair of scissors.
To bring to mind love, he smiles
till it hurts; he can’t stop
laughing.
Sarah J. Sloat knows the feeling.
To make the sound of pity, he rakes his hair
with a pine branch; he freezes
ice cubes.
To evoke spite, he smashes two patches of corduroy together
in a wood
far away
without a soul in sight.
To simulate folly, he rustles a boa of tape yanked
from a cassette around his shoulders; he gives up
smoking.
So what about silence, he asks, waggling a rubber hammer.
For fear, he mounts two live flies onto a photo of the ocean.
He is writing a manual in which nearness
wields a long pair of scissors.
To bring to mind love, he smiles
till it hurts; he can’t stop
laughing.
Sarah J. Sloat knows the feeling.
