Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nine Winter 2005 |
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OF WHAT IS LEFT Anna Husain She wearies of the night, clocks her haunted hair, halos ash, pulverized thread, immaculate as worms to touch. Tones of heros, held in words on paper cupped in hardened hands blood proud, run cold in albums weathered acid strips. Pleas. Where is the necessary curve of flesh? Feel of warmth? Sun mirror impaled on skewered hours. Shattered-- never hush. |
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About Anna Husain |