Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-one
Summer 2016
Card to Kim
Sarah Carey

All things being even, I count myself blessed.
Who called whom last is no longer important.
Meanwhile, red clover has been ruled out
as a cure for hot flashes,
“How I learned to Drive” no longer seems
an odd name for a play about incest.
Cancun has become a sensible destination.
Flashing the Gulf with my Pentax, safe husband,
margarita, I see cloud cover, a flock of birds
an engine’s life away from immolation,
twisting, turning like my stir.

Am I nervous? No, not really. Drunk?
Perhaps. A little helps, you see.
Did I tell you the Galapagos Islands
were something else, uplifted areas, coral in coils
—first life removed, it was explained,
in thrust after volcanic thrust. The guide
shouted ‘lava’ everywhere, and where it fell
in the scheme of things, and how the forms themselves
could tell this story, if only we would pay attention.
Picture a wasteland: fossilized soils,
flamingos fishing from lagoons in shadows
of surrounding black, out of the blue.
Back when and just then,
I swear to you, they glowed.

About Sarah Carey

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