Prick of the Spindle: Poetry: Sloat: Chowder

Chowder
By Sarah J. Sloat

The river?
The river was getting ahead of itself,
lumpy and chowderlike.

March: Fishermen crouched on the banks.
Mud behaved like face-up tape.

Most of the river throbbed on, but some
dribbles of it stuck along the sides.

April: The chowder was making like mud.
Lumpfish marched onward like men.

The throb was taped along the banks,
having sided with the dribble.

And the river?
The river crouched face down in the river,
getting way ahead of itself.

Sarah J. Sloat lives in Germany, where she works for a news agency. Her poems have appeared in Juked, Bateau, Court Green and Third Coast, among other publications. Sarah blogs at The Rain in My Purse (http://theraininmypurse.blogspot.com).