|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
In the Midwest, everyone has three hearts.
You can’t survive winter without winter
surviving you, so you look like a prayer
on your knees. Snow Shovel Gods, clear us
a path. God of Beer and Snowflakes.
Goddess of Land and Lake Effect.
The first heart is a ball of ice. Blue
baseball. The second, fire.
The third heart pulls in every spring
when the sun cracks you open with a sledgehammer.
Digs like a pit bull for bones. Claws the soil
with fingered teeth, and like a midwife
plucks a newborn from a clot of black dirt.
Fresh stems from the cold, wet March of you.
About Maggie Graber