|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|K Street Hangout
No magpie hankers for this life,
rough weave of paycheck and prayer book.
You say there were fireflies in trees,
a hapless uncle’s engineless car
and a steep hill to roll it down.
Dusk peeled off the kids one by one
till left were only the gypsies of Sisyphus,
pushing that runaway wreck up the avenues,
last chase of axle and chassis, for one more joyride.
You thought gravity was your friend. You thought
your mother’s voice would always call you
home. The tide going out is, from ocean’s
point of view, coming in. You thought
you could choose your own burden,
could escape the double-helix hex.
Sometimes you identify with ocean;
sometimes with fog. The tribe you were
born to—it named the hunger moon and
dark matter. You walked out of it, still
smiling, in your overcoat of curfew and skin.
About Jessica Goodfellow