Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty
Spring 2016
 
K Street Hangout
Jessica Goodfellow

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

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