|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|The Color of Darkness
I’m going to begin by imitating the bones of broken stockings.
Ask about my hair, and I will pass you the dictionary, marked at passages for pubic,
decipher, and shelterbelt.
It is easier to roast Yukon Gold potatoes than to divvy up my mouth.
Part of you has already slid slantwise into my throat.
I can expect at least one of your eyes to stay fixed in my pocket.
I’ve kept it imprinted on a mirror with the lid of the compact closed.
I once asked a Hindu swami in Banaras the color of darkness.
He described washing his robes in the Ganges and suddenly leaving his body for hours at
About George Kalamaras