|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|I Wear the Tiny Blue Plates as Shoes
past the gut-splattered van the sex edge over dust
the wrench in my chest
pine boughs hanging.
It’s not that I want
the sirens to change me
or need to be spanked
another day inlaid with rocks and red waste
the hoarse sluice of vanilla.
The small cat won’t hurt us.
The smashed toad still moves
pinning your hands to my back at the crossroad.
My natural state is black-stockinged
one sunblade skinny and bald.
I run hot water
swishing green sweat from the cactus
twist out of your mask and lead apron too late.
About Jessie Janeshek