Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-six
Winter 2014
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.

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