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Sarah Sloat
Snorkeling
Ever since the
stars swarmed into my hands
I understand the
best places
to
plunge for rubies.
From the cellar
window, the smell of laundry
lifts like a billow of ibis,
transporting.
In
Tobago, I’m trawling for the bad guys,
their
underwater whiskers, their one-way eyes.
Toggling atop the
waterline, the sun
is a redhead,
resurfacing
just
for an instant.
Stovetop
the girls have
grown so much
the ceiling
shatters
kitchen chairs collapse
but a quart of
milk stays simple
it will do for
brewing
custard in the
sweet hereafter
recital of steps
so few
even a daughter
might muster
a cloudburst of
milk
mudslide of sugar
egg albumen
expanding
like a most
virginal flower
stovetop -
slopshrine
nothing special
about
stewing,
ruminating
over smoke in the
kitchen
why? because
the mind simmers
like melancholy it
boils over
and what else can
you do
up to the elbows
in flour
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