Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
This Being Human
George Kalamaras

We shall slip the unrestricted dagger into the sunflower’s furry delirium.
The ranunculus sun shall sink into the trenches of the moon.

Many moons, many microscopic worms, as if we were born of Jupiter.
Jupiter, the controlling planet the ancient rishis called guru.

Toward the shredding of the body is an arrogance of salt.
Smell me, touch my, mouth me toward dissolve.

I wish I could trouble-musk the moon into my very.
Skin of me—be born of myself, through myself, the way the bark of a tree
      grieves fire.

Poison, then, the ivy of my passing. Postulate my mouth
From the ocher robe of soft brown planets of the blood, we remember what
      it was like.

This being human. This touch and tough of tongue.
This always begging. This human reach and sting.

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