|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
White magic, black magic –
this hollowed toadskin has
no care who holds it. Did the toad?
They sing in spring’s dripping darkness;
he makes a note in his book,
in columns cribbed with marginalia
and proofs he has no time for.
Soon the soldiers will come,
red with dust from what was once
a city, begging some new sorcery
to smite this year's enemy —
for gold, for Crom, for the touch
of her hair like cornsilk.
Until then, there is data still to collect:
decay rate of enchanted pumpkins,
or the terminal velocity of apples;
how long a princess can sleep
until a cure is found for princes.
About Donald Raymond