Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
Sarina Bosco

               keep running around in the woods and your legs will get scarred. no boy will ever want you like that

           sometimes I think I fell out of the trees on purpose.
there is nothing like the dry scrape of bark
the loss of breath on the way down
the thud of detritus beneath my
shoulder blades (ochre leaves like wings)

was I born harboring this terror?
           telling me to run —
crash through brambles and flee one type of nature
by escaping into another.

in bed under moonlight the scars are smooth
opaque like miniature lakes.
he presses the pads
of his fingers to them
and my muscles quiver —
the deer out in the dark lift their heads
           the arches of my feet stretch
           I fight the urge to spill out into the night
           among blackberry bushes and snow

About Sarina Bosco

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