Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty
Spring 2016
 
I wish the train was this empty every day
Flower Conroy

Clear fall Wednesday though it could have been any gutted hour.
Graffiti blares, a flourishing across brick.
When heartbreak was my art, I went 11 days without eating.
I floated was how I explain it without explaining, time was birdlike,
I thought I’d never tap my way out of the shell. Then a fur-
belowing of light. A bridge. Vacant lot. If you’ve never been held
underwater. If you’ve never woken in a strange place.
One summer I took shot after shot
of the fog but fog is fog, is cloudmurmur.
The beach’s low tide halitosis embedded in my hair.
You still surface. Mostly in dream. It’s a way to see what isn’t
apparent. Ubiquitous ghostings, pogonip, writ in air. Here
at the ends of my hands are my wrists.

About Flower Conroy

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