| Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Forty-one Summer 2016 |
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| 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. |
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