Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
 
Amada
Damon Ferrell Marbut

For years I have lived inside you,
strode lanes you’ve rarely walked
since birth, and you may not desire my stay.
True, it has been some time
since I wrote you a love letter,
but if I were to die, and perhaps I have,
you might say, in that voice,
that silence is my apology
for who I am when I leave
the inside of you.

Often, when restless, I shifted in your womb
and leapt from your body to watch you breathe.
I might have become an athlete.
I might have stretched at the line of your tonsils
and ran, in cold night,
to the moist edge of your reason
so that I, by your control,
would fly upward toward the moon
as you watched, your neck slightly turned.

I do not know what love means.
I do not know what you mean,
precisely,
and that, in my language,
is all I can tell you
and all I need to know.

About Damon Ferrell Marbut

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