Nothing Fits Me Anymore
Nothing fits me anymore.
Not my parka, not the color of my car,
not the people I voted for.
I go wet-headed into the cold.
Past the field where corn tassels hang
from bent stalks, the errant strands
of my hair snap off.
Every day is an eruption, a yard-sale till
burst and purged of the coins spent on crap
I’ve since turned my back on.
At home I rinse the eggs before I crack,
because of the smudged shell,
because of the land’s fat.
I step into the bath clad in flannel and socks,
knowing the body alone is not sufficient;
knowing I can never get clean enough.
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 Passages North, Whiskey Island and Beloit Poetry Journal, among other publications. 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 late 2015.