Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
D.M. Aderibigbe

News of her death stains
everybody’s lips.
I brush through the pages of pains
she leaves behind.

My sister is a mother
at 2— she feeds her doll
with the feet of well-wishers
who have come to share our grief.

My brother pedals on a ghost’s
hand, skidding up and down
the street. The sun
shines from his head.

My step-father fixes a stick
of cigarette into his mouth— smokes
file out of his nostrils
like exhaust. His eyes, red

like ember pierce
through me. The dulcet voice
of the radio rings 2 pm—
the time for lunch that used

to smell of her scrumptious fingers.
I look towards the dining—
empty like an inactive stadium.
I peek into my mother’s

bedroom; she’s not there to roll
around the bed— thanking God
for the lunch. Only her pillow
lay at the center of the bed.

About D.M. Aderibigbe

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