Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-seven
Spring 2015
A tiny unbroken snow flower stuck inside
Juliet Cook & j/j hastain

I accidentally burnt a branch
my family tree.

See, I was raised
Mormon. I wasn’t raised
out of a womb

and then flung
onto a conveyor belt
or was I? I mean,

I am so much of the matter
from which I was born
but I am also
how I was reared.

Hence the need
to create my own
and rip it off when I choose.

Hence the need to cut
one of my own fingers
and reshape it into a bible
bookmark that drips through
some of the lines.

Another confession
for the trinity, for this uncanny
obsession with threes.

When I lift my finger to you, father
I am still flipping out
on the speed

of my never ending 666
paranoid streak.
One half a nun uniform.

One half a blood mask.
Two thirds a bloodied apron.
One whole caboodle

with an orchestra dripping down the walls
and staining the alter

white as winter
trapped in a snow blower.

About Juliet Cook & j/j hastain

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