Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-one
Summer 2016
Stephanie Lane Sutton

Flocks of starlings are a dancing cloud.
Guests arriving or leaving.
A type of flight.
It snowed that day.
I left tracks to the pine tree in a neighbor’s backyard.
The window facing into the woods.
I dreamed of soap being stolen.
A dictionary of symbols says my confession is someone else’s problem.
My friend and I were trapped underground on the train.
Smoke thick as my waist plumed out every rift.
She told me about her nightmares.
But a driveway just stays.
It is a thing laid flat.
My father tells threats as if a good joke.
The doctor said I’m an acronym, out-spelled.
Everyone said I look like a chase.

About Stephanie Lane Sutton

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