Toaster

Voodoo bungalow of crumbs,

encumbered by small hungers



how many evenings have I breathed

your vesper float of smoke,



how many mornings have I warmed

my hands over your burnt offerings?


Inside twin slits sit rows of filament,

aglow as kitchen brimstone. Snug



pulpit of hellfire, designed

to suck softness dry,



your task turns oat and wheat

to gold, exhales a fraught aroma.



With every trip of the lever,

how close I come to transformation –



somewhere a witch is burning,



somewhere a yogi goes

over the coals.



Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey, and after university lived in China, Kansas and Italy. For the last 16 years, she’s lived in Germany, where she’s an editor for a news agency. Sarah’s poetry has appeared in Third Coast, RHINO, Caffeine Destiny, Bateau and Front Porch, among other publications.