This is the shape I take smelling hyacinths.
And when laughing alone I take the form of a horse.
He asked what I had for lunch and I said salad, when really I’d eaten nothing.
The lie told to spare explanation.
The tale about life’s ingredients, more honest, after I told it, than I’d thought.
At dusk, my shadow exchanged looks with the lamplight and nodded.
Disdain is contempt’s little sister.
Snow blowing into the mouth of amen.
About the author:
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 2016.