Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-three
Winter 2013
Amanda Gaye Smith

Tobacco, burnt, smells like rotting—
wise logs, nails stained. Teeth bluing at the gum line.

Many rings, many wives! The old pine bends and sloughs.
Oh, a fire here:
a bad year for bark-bound parasites. Lush and bursting
pillows which close over my boyish heart—

“How are your hearts?” a friend asked, as if I am an earthworm.
“I never cared for pink or yellow” I replied

In three days I realize while pissing at work that if I drink enough
coffee, I still smell like you—
one year later.

About Amanda Gaye Smith

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