Inebriate of Air

Sarah J. Sloat

The day was September, oxygen oozing from the dying wildflowers.

Cease beeping, we said to just about everyone.

We hung a sign outside the church: Park your car, forget your anger.

The leaves clattered metallically onto café tables round as coins.

To be kind, you wished the leaves might fall in water.

A little absinthe, and I felt like a rose revived by aspirin.

No one expects a reward just to ease getting older.

Even though there’s hell to pay.


[title taken from Emily Dickinson's poem, 'I taste a liquor never brewed']
 

Sarah J. Sloat lives in Frankfurt, Germany, a stone’s throw from Schopenhauer's grave. Her poems and prose have appeared in West Branch, Hayden's Ferry Review and Beloit Poetry Journal. Sarah's chapbook of poems on typefaces and texts, Inksuite is available from Dancing Girl Press, which will also publish Heiress to a Small Ruin in 2015.

Comments

  1. 👍

What do you think?

*

css.php