| Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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| Coffin Sara Moore Your breath is a violent nest—children give their teeth to the crow on your tongue. When you open your mouth, what are the eggs you pull from your throat— what sort of earth births where it consumes— as if we were conceived from a piece of digested sky. Even the tree outside—the dying leaves on branches, gore. I have a possum heart. It always smells so sick. Watch it lay like roadkill in my chest. It is a gift for your cold eye, orbiting my face like a chunk of moon. Previous Poem |
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