Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-two
Winter 2016
Live Flower Necklace
Christina Seymour

I give myself a headache making realizations.
I’ve learned that artificial art—paint by number or adult coloring—isn’t the right kind.
These are all just things I say, I say, to not offend.
To be compelled takes first an inner compulsion
to draw corn on a large circle of moon.
The whole picture is: I can tell when he’s not listening,
and it’s usually when my voice takes that OK now… tone.
So why leave a cave when this chair on the shore is enough:
blond surfers, delicately buttered breakfast potatoes,
and an orange sun encircling us, labeled Honeymoon.
The trick is making the ordinary a heaven:
soft bells sloped toward the ground,
thick skinned concords fizzling in the honey and yeast,
the part where even if I’m alone I’m not alone so long as I’m there.

About Christina Seymour

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