Across the Time Zones

Jetlag’s cripple, I wheel my carry-on
to reception, where a basket stupifies

travelers with the scent of overripe pears.
Seen to my room, I draw the blinds

on the zenith of someone else’s afternoon.
Behind my brow, the propeller stutters,

and these limbs, lame with time’s duplicity,
betray a worn-out battery. Jettisoned west,

stuffed with staggered airline meals,
my body is an hourglass, struggling to cinch

the girdle on a few remaining grains.
I run like slow water across the sheets,

molten as Dali’s watch. At 8, it wearies me
to see the stars emerge, and I’m reminded

of a snowless winter, light years ago,
when I loved a man too young for me.

Sarah Sloat 

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