Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-eight
Summer 2015
Theodore Worozbyt

My grandmother died today. I thought not of her but of you. My dog drowned your mother. You glowered. You gathered to attack. I was not afraid I was repentant. I pulled back the paper wrapping that covered the body. The package was too small to be remains. A silver salmon lay inside, broken into statuary shards, its length intact. Its dorsal and ventral parts were thrown outward, in fragments. I covered it back, ashamed of my growling, swelling belly with a tick on it.

About Theodore Worozbyt

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