Sarah J. Sloat


There are rooms underwater
we can’t imagine, pellucid rooms
we’ll never penetrate, gelid
chambers, fastened by lashes
to the tide. Dark sharpens
their sparkle, a trance of staircases
and chandeliers that traipse
and sway as those on ships
drawn far from shore.
Wade out and they come to you.
Wade out to palaces, wade
by dare, by drift, by lure.
Wade out by pendulum
that the slow bell of tide
may turn before you
reach out to beg
dazzled entry.


Return to Volume 3.1






All files © 2005-2012 Blood Orange Review