|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
I can’t be a poet. I’m afraid of birds.
My language has no landscape.
I’ve never cried for silos.
I’m tired of trees, birch oak maple sap.
Lines in pages of pine, moons and fields
and goddamn childhood.
My mouth is a car crash.
I’ll never be free.
My baby tooth sank into my gums
I had no choice, it grew into me.
I’m the owner of someone else’s thought
lost in words like
cicada sumac valley love.
Let’s talk about dahlias! Such a beautiful
death, brown and smelling of
nothing. Night-blooming Jasmine
afraid of the light.
I’ve been wrong about these things
but I’ll go on.
What’d I dream of?
Marble Falls on fire.
Pearls and moonglow.
I dreamt about how short I’d be
if my legs decided to move on
without me. How much they’d learn
without an ass for a head. I don’t trust myself.
I don’t trust you either.
But maybe keep the flowers.
About Babette Cieskowski