|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
For My Son at Rockland Psych
Talking to you
is like walking between the open rafters
of an abandoned building
listing at the edge of a nail-strewn field.
It’s wit’s end, where buzzards gather
and deer browse on asbestos grass,
grown by a dry rain falling
from posted doors and windows
only seen through rusted grates.
Ease and groan
play havoc along the checked wood.
One slip, and your sunlit eyes crack wide
around a sardonic smile-termite work
of a darker demolition.
Then a shadow passes across your cobwebbed face.
The attic door unhinges in a lunar eclipse,
blood-red brooded through rotted lintels and sills
until the splintered syllables
of half-eaten words drift down
small dust piles; the debris of days glitter gray
into a year, your 21st, accumulating here.
About Sharon Kennedy-Nolle