Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-two
Winter 2016
           For My Son at Rockland Psych
Sharon Kennedy-Nolle

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

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