Commodities

Sarah J. Sloat

Hurricanes outstrip the season; rains arrive replete with rusted spores, loose suitcases of storm. The crop comes in, declared stillborn. Sweet crude, palm oil, how much will we need to keep us warm? It’s not the dearth that makes me bitter. The wick works down. The wind is not tempered to the shorn. Copper gleams and nickel glimmers; the glint of minerals grows worn. We wade into the burning lake, a kiln, and let the strata form.