Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-two
Winter 2016
Forest Eunuch Sutra
George Kalamaras

It was time to read bone-bleed from the forty-first Sutra.
It simply stated the condition of the dead.

Many came from all over.
Even the forest eunuchs paid their emaciated respects.

Part of my scar is something achingly beautiful.
Yes, I’d been a child. Then a man younger than I’d been at age four.

I don’t walk in a way that easily ripens my mouth.
Summer-sluch the cuts of my tongue. Kiss them to speak.

We retreated to the hermit cave of a marsupial pouch.
It was warm there. Nocturnal. I could take suck. I was close to the belly of the mother,
       inside of which whirred the world.

About George Kalamaras

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