Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
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 Lutherís body trapped,
taken away under a lakeís waves
like he flew on a trapeze,
one elegant twist and gone.
About Laura Hirneisen