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

When you compared yourself
to the crater’s rim, what did you mean?
You said: little barrels of scales.
You said: while resting.

The city was breathing through its mouth.
The children opened paper beaks.
There was a rustling of numbers.

On Sheafe St., having tucked the day
into a drawer, you stood up
& smiled. Your mouth was clay, like the roofs
of St. Augustine.

It was a good story, you said.
Did the story have to be true?

About Katie Hogan

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