Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nine Winter 2005 |
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This Dark Lowing Lissa Kiernan From whose flanks comes this world's dark lowing? —Gabriella Calvocoressi i. Right now, she wants nothing more than to stay in this warm sac. Pulls lanugo hair over eyes that will not re-open until week twenty-eight. Other times, yearns to tunnel— Greets each new day with shrieks of joy. Had she known this schism would not die, would she still choose to suckle? ii. She wonders for the fortieth time if depression kills. Nerve cells spark, dwindle, die. As if under water, she hears ribs faintly splint, the muffled crackling of lungs. Her eyes like shutters, she blinks back day’s bright, making flip-books for keepsakes. Just before it shrouds her. Sucks her beneath. iii. Even when her candle had been sucked out for good, even then, she writhed. She thought she had been clear. Wanted only to decay in earth's soft trough, to savor each slowly diminishing limb. Instead a searing fire reared, so bright it burned her eyes. |
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About Lissa Kiernan |