Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
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Favorite Son Laura Hirneisen I wear plaid, a pinafore, shiny black shoes with snaps, white socks pulled to each knee, hair combed to undo curl. By the woodstove, you sing lovely music to yourself while I listen in another room, dance the way I saw Marion when she thought no one looked. Tonight, the minister comes to dinner, helps plant peas before sundown, says some words over bread, our hands linked like knitting chains. It is the first month without snow, mud thick and wet on the plow, chickens cooing from a henhouse, all things warm, still as stones. Much later, a telephone rings to tell of Luther’s body trapped, taken away under a lake’s waves like he flew on a trapeze, one elegant twist and gone. |
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About Laura Hirneisen |