| Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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| It’s All Right Damon Ferrell Marbut I was boy-mad at the stupid things, yelling at mother in the car, in the whisper-yell, with her laughing, saying, How Cute. She told that story when I was twenty-eight, at a family thing. Again, laughing, the same while angry I grew into a man and she rolled her eyes. She had been somewhere, a long time, on a Pacific Ocean beach. Her curves. The lightning. A man who told her how to shoot a gun. He even left her without pillows when he left. Auntie says she was beautiful back then. Mad as Hell. So do I go curious at your anger? Is it anger? Never you. Maybe your word-sounds on parchment. I heard of you on a couch, from a fat man who could not pronounce respite. Couldn’t believe in it, too. He was angry at the young and the brilliant and the insane. He fell asleep in the Gulf with a straw in his teeth. I saw it go down. All day I had laughed, like he was boy, I was Mother, I was you, the shore was air, climbing and falling, the sky gone to flames. But the sun with its memory— the fight, the kiss, the itty bitty anger and the big and lovely world. |
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