Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
 
Unshod
Risa Denenberg

I drive with eyes closed and arrive without shoes. At a distance, my
father is beautiful. I try to suck the wound on the baby’s shoulder. I try
to kill my mother with a wooden spoon. At a distance, my father is
beautiful so I drive with eyes closed. I drive with eyes closed and run
into a large bush with elephant-ear leaves. The baby opens her mouth,
but can’t find the nipple. I take the baby to the hospital with the bite-
wound on her shoulder. We go to the grave site and open my mother’s
coffin. There is a small woman going up an escalator. Over and over
she falls. Over and over, I catch her. I am in bed with my father while
his new wife changes the baby’s diaper. On the subway, I trade my
backpack for an empty paper sack. When my mother brings me a cup
of coffee, I laugh because I have been awake all night. One by one,
babies are being rescued from a deep tunnel. It is a miracle.

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