Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty
Spring 2016
Val Dering Rojas

I’ve forgotten about love, the spent match cliché, and,
I suppose, somewhere, the scent of fresh air, yellow rose,
and cut grass– and possibly jet fuel, and several cities–
and I know there is this small milagro, like a tiny bonfire
within me, this sliver of silver consuming ribbons
of rainbow gasoline, but it’s more likely dam or seawall
or levee. The way I stopple fissures and swell cracks
with mortar, lime and sand, and the separation of clear water
and translucent kerosene; that’s the same as asking
for catastrophe– but this is not condition, but cure: paroxysm
made to rend the cloth of suffering. This is how I end things.
Look– I could totally lie and say what’s inside is like a collection
of bower birds, an eagle, a swallow, even a wasp, but I am a puddle
of sky lessening, blank as spilled salt, unsubstantial as the ashtray
full of ash. My heart is locked inside a glass box, miracle of a God
dirty and flawed, papier-mâché, cardboard flame.

About Val Dering Rojas

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