Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Kristine Ong Muslim
They are frisky--those hanged
creatures of texture and boneless
mechanics. Halved, they entertain
aggression, rustle like itinerant
husks. They have no reason
to learn body language.
My fingers disappear at the
boundary between fabric and air.
I want to breathe with them,
pat their seams, squeeze the
trapped light between the folds.
They always yield, crinkling as
they overtake the world.
About Kristine Ong Muslim