Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-two
Winter 2016
 
The Color of Darkness
George Kalamaras

I’m going to begin by imitating the bones of broken stockings.
Ask about my hair, and I will pass you the dictionary, marked at passages for pubic,
       decipher
, and shelterbelt.

It is easier to roast Yukon Gold potatoes than to divvy up my mouth.
Part of you has already slid slantwise into my throat.

I can expect at least one of your eyes to stay fixed in my pocket.
I’ve kept it imprinted on a mirror with the lid of the compact closed.

I once asked a Hindu swami in Banaras the color of darkness.
He described washing his robes in the Ganges and suddenly leaving his body for hours at
       a time.

About George Kalamaras

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