Getting There
When cold folds my veins slowly into stacks,
I know blood is the mother of all motion.
When tired of their blue islands,
my eyes avail themselves of whatever happens past.
When my fingers lift to ease an itch without my asking, I’m glad at last to have left off thinking.
I see no reason to give up on anything.
I’m fine minding the mind of the store.
When my feet no longer fit my body,
I make trust my body and go about on horseback.
S a r a h J . S l o a t
guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney
Afterword
copyright 2014 by Sarah J. Sloat