|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|AUGUST IN PORTSMOUTH
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