Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
 
Waiting For The Future To Pick Me Up At Seven
Amanda Kimmerly

i’ve not eaten in days,
preparing. it promised

a vegetable tray
and Wisconsin cheeses,

and love that my belly
can gnaw on.

at a quarter past—
the future’s not here yet.

my stomach groans on
like old men in cold houses

a thousand layers of socks,
yet feet are still feet

and smell like it, grandpa.

perhaps his bet was such:
for the future to bathe away the grit

of his itchy toes—sun patched
and broiled—like new birth marks,

making room for more stain,
how many years can we

run towards God? on burning coals,

that bright calm, the future,
like now

aging us.

About Amanda Kimmerly

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