Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-four Spring 2014 |
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Waiting For The Future To Pick Me Up At Seven Amanda Kimmerly i’ve not eaten in days, preparing. it promised a vegetable tray and Wisconsin cheeses, and love that my belly can gnaw on. at a quarter past— the future’s not here yet. my stomach groans on like old men in cold houses a thousand layers of socks, yet feet are still feet and smell like it, grandpa. perhaps his bet was such: for the future to bathe away the grit of his itchy toes—sun patched and broiled—like new birth marks, making room for more stain, how many years can we run towards God? on burning coals, that bright calm, the future, like now aging us. |
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