Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-eight
Summer 2015
Katie Hogan

It got away. The rope broke in my hands like twisted raffia. I was standing alone on a beach. It was something like The Black Stallion. I resembled a shipwrecked stowaway anyway, listening to a horse screaming. The lobster boats & the Isle of Shoals were so small the planes swelled like black tadpoles & should have fallen out of the sky. This was the nightmare I could afford to have, twisting my bare fingers. This was something I hadn’t been chasing through trampled yards in broad daylight, waving my arms like fence posts, like handfuls of poppies, like a limp flag.

About Katie Hogan

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