Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty
Winter 2012
Lisa Takes Aim
Lisa McCool-Grime

Lisa arranges them according to size: Thunderthighs
beside Dogbreath. Egghead to the far right. All of them in peasant skirts

with bodices laced tight. Now Lisa wants to rouse her fair maidens
to the task at hand. Nevermind the stretch of beach at her back.

The dog walkers and kite fliers. The periwinkles digging their own
holes. She lines the maidens up at the cliff base and blindfolds them,

the way she’d seen justice done. This here’s a gunshot wedding and for once
there’ll be kind words. Well-placed garlands. Yet Lisa has failed

to pace her fair maidens. They are interlacing their prayerlike fingers
and turning their uncovered noses toward the sun. Beginning a new line with

a turned-up nose. A few yards out over the water, the whole sky forgets to carve
the air into forms, clouds wrinkling into clouds again. Lisa rouses

a better feel for the wind. Galloping in, Horseface arrives just in time for a little
pick-me-up. Shoot for the soul and you’ll never miss. During some of his long,

empty quests, Horseface wrote that thing and the next. Let the maidens
slump in the sand
. On the page, Lisa paints wings buzzing around

a pile of neatly folded hands. So many blinding banners on the shore. A set
of hoofprints among the cirrus. Lisa climbs astride the shoulders

of Horseface for a dive, aims past the shallows and drowns. Ruins everything.

About Lisa McCool-Grime

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