Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-four Spring 2014 |
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Thirteen Thirteen-Word Dog Stories (and a Fourteenth of Fourteen Words) George Kalamaras One wildebeest cow (with calf) traverses the moon-lathed night, avoiding the sleeping hyenas. * Once upon a rhyme, only canine time echoed through sassafras stump and willow-root. * Everything is Brahmsian, from an Indiana dog’s death to your cough of trees. * The possum is nocturnal, arboreal, nesting in hollow trees, in stumps and twigs. * That day I brought loose-leaf white tea to Cataract Falls for after meditation— * The story begins: I am mythical in my grief, fascinated by Wallachian Sheep. * Our animal selves quiver prolonged silk down to the river of our feet. * Historically, death in Romania is always north of what we hope to avoid. * The story should always end this way: I, too, will one day die. * If I confessed self-hate, surely you’d look away, squatting on your own grave. * When the copyright is up, our souls become part of the public domain. * In other words, show me raccoon innards and predict a hound’s soft under-throat. * Musical half-weather—you are now a minor key, a baying melancholy note. * Thus, Brahms was untiring in his efforts to raise every dog from the dead. |
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