|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|Explaining Origins and Ending
Five-hundred or forty years ago, your heart
was a small plum in the paw
of an animal no one ever named.
This creature had
ears as thin as cactus spikes and stone teeth.
It was the ancestor of your
When God made you,
of this being and this half eaten heart
as if it were an eternal moment.
Nothing is quite perfect unless
it is like this, half eaten and unaware
of what it does or will do.
My son, we are half picked, rotting
fruit. Look at the way our lips still crack—
knees bend like emptying vines.
Our own tongues and teeth devour us.
About Sara Moore