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

I burn most bridges that I cross – but this
one… I doubt she’s waiting on the other
side, rolling a blackberry across those
lips like she used to. We’d found the mother

of brambles down near the tracks, where the river
ate rock into cliffs. Our feet would dangle
over the edge, insects whirring around
the soles of our shoes. She paused, untangled

her fingers from mine. Licked the juice from
the corner of her mouth. And when she
wouldn’t raise her eyes to mine, I knew – felt
it humming in the boards beneath me.

About Sarina Bosco

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