P.E. Sloan was raised on the South Side of Chicago and has resided on the East Coast, in the Florida Keys and in Europe. His poems have appeared in regional anthologies and in a national poetry review. He currently lives in Northern Virginia and Brooklyn.
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There in Oblivion
P.E. Sloan
P.E. Sloan
Like a dowry
Tightly pleated
Entombed in plastic
Fine flourish needle point
Ready for the next transformation
Spiffy and creased
The table cloth lies pristine.
My mother is in slow decline
Still fearful of the jackboots
She sits serene
Confident that the perfect cloth
Lies zapped, zipped and spotless
Just below the good silver
Ready for company
The white cloth resembles
A prayer shawl
Following its last incarnation
No doubt taken
Directly to the dry cleaner
For quick and sure restoration
A family profession
Landless, deracinated and despised
Like alchemists my ancestors
Created beauty from
Spirit alone
Thought possessed of special powers,
They were consigned to trample the universe
And forage for refuge
This is how they coped
They kept the silver polished
And made the floors sparkle
Not an errant stain on any surface
Two sets of dishes
A samovar
The kinder heard no evil