Every night the reindeer gaping
in the basement window. Slenderly.
Legs flash past the lights, antlers hung
like candelabra, a matter of faith.
Their hooves move like spoons.
Mouthful of mud. Mouthful of Armagnac.
The sleigh is the absolute rhapsody, the last word in lunging,
an epée plunging from a white glove.
The reindeer confuse weeping for wind, acorns for bells.
Since they came, I mourn no more for my horselessness.
They believe in the least of us.
They nose unpretentiously through the nativity
while I unscrew the base of the snow globe.
They’ve been so patient.
Now we go in.
Sarah J. Sloat lives in Germany, where she works for a news agency. She is a big fan of Vasko Popa, Elaine Equi and the French surrealists. Sarah’s poems have appeared in RHINO, Court Green, Bateau and Opium, among other publications. Her chapbook, In the Voice of a Minor Saint, was published in 2009 by Tilt Press, and another, Excuse me while I wring this long swim out of my hair, was published this year by Dancing Girl Press. She blogs at The Rain in My Purse.
* This poem appears in her chapbook from Dancing Girl Press, and can also be found at their website, here.