The Upswing Arrives

I flew in on the green wind,
heiress of the 13th hour,
where time holes up in a corner
and won’t budge back out.
I am a prowler, a prisoner
paroled, leave me alone
in your house and I’ll read your journal,
rifle through your intimates, study
your prescriptions,
rub all my hands over your furniture.
I’ll put my tongue on each spoon
and bottle, press my cheek to your floor,
feel the house redden.
There’s nothing that doesn’t thrill me.
When you aren’t looking
I grow a tail and bray softly.
Yes, I’m a pack mule of bursting desire,
a lush, a smutsmith,
a greedy pocket; I go
into the day and come back
with my hands full.

Sarah Sloat

If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Sloat would be pleased to hear from you.