Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Seventeen
Summer 2008
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Star-Nosed Mole
Melinda Wilson

Forgive me for thinking I could revive you,
rolling your little rotten potato body
in my warm hands. I hadn't expected
your throat to rip, that awful apple-stomach
peeking out. Forgive me for hanging you
from the loose bark of the oak tree, but
you looked so departed among the bowing
tulips and your ecru husk seemed a perfect
match for the mushrooms growing from
the tree's knotty side. The birds found you
bitter, but satisfyingly thicker than the worms
ócorpulent cucumber. At least the darkness
is not new, having always been blindly mining
through the crisp earth. I met a bird in the basement
that after the lights went out ran himself wildly
into the concrete walls, his beak bent to a dull
callous, something like your pulpy twinkle snoot.

About Melinda Wilson

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