Arsenic Lobster poetry journal	Final Issue 2018
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Lungs and the ghosts of lungs Jenny Williamson She went nowhere; she traveled a terrible distance. Wrote her opus in secret, in lye, in code; dyed her hair impossible colors. The lovers lined up around the block; they came in all languages— all seeking to pour themselves into the silence she had cultivated in every corner. The tiny apartment expanded and contracted like orgasm: like heartbeat. There was no room for anyone else. She was building herself a life raft, a spaceship, a doorway; she was building herself. The money came and the money went and came again; the pain mostly went but sometimes it stroked the back of her neck with its ruinous fingers just to remind her. She burned down the house she had spent the universe building; turned it all inside out— stuffed the skin with the steely embers. Made it bigger on the inside. Meanwhile the tiny apartment breathed in and breathed out. Lungs and the ghosts of lungs. She no longer killed her cockroaches; just brought them into her bones. The days became warmer so she put on her spacesuit and went out in the city. Lie down, the beggars advised her. Give it up and lie down. The subways all stank like purgatory. A man in the bar asked her name and remarked on her delicate fingers. See these bones, she replied; I have made them myself out of nothing.

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