Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-three
April 2017
 
She runs to the edge of time in pink stilettos.
Alicia Elkort

A persistent waxing gibbous moon hisses across the sky.

Hungry rivers mist colla parte at her lips.

Shall I write your obit while drinking black coffee with cream or red tea with honey?

Which high-backed chair is closest to the horizon?

Your lazy profiterole sits on the plate, smiling.

We’ve both lost patience for men with indigo hands.

The city sleeps even though the bridge is luminous with illusions.

My girdle shines sadness through its hands like a sweet pea on the vine.

Pass the persimmons, you said in June, winking like a semaphore.

I opened her jewelry box and heard the sound of a cricket, slowed to a psalm.

About Alicia Elkort

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