~Inspired by issue thirty-three’s contributors
baby kicks himself to sleep
A. having abandoned his teddy
B. in the kitchen
C. trying to unlock a chess set
when our mother breaks into the room
she is
A. an earthworm
B. a fire
C. a boyish heart
she once asked
A. Did we ever touch one another in the tall grass?
B. Was it a honey locust?
C. Could I have been your crushed rib?
when no one answers, she writes rites
A. to ditch gym again
B. to commandeer the stereo
C. for far worse crimes than this
we’re not sure but believe
the baby was conceived
A. orbiting a face
B. from a violent nest
C. in a possum heart
and he wants
A. an explosion like you said
B. the sweet sift of rising steam
C. to open their mouths
our mother cannot be saved because
A. that would bite holes until nothing remains
B. they are nothing but rotten fritters
C. they used to think they were interesting
we sing as long as she records
A. the world standard
B. the subtropics at room temperature
C. only ¼ evidence
someone once touched
A. the circular territory
B. their one garden hose
C. our foreheads
what if baby knows
A. how to go about knowing it
B. how it’s spelt
C. something that nobody cares enough about
together they donate
A. a hail-white heart
B. lingerie and shy white sheets
C. the curdled white matter
in the end our mother was
A. the glue you owed
B. stupid as she is
C. what you thought she was
The correct answers are waiting for you in our fresh catch of poems. We hope you enjoy discovering them for yourself.
---
Susan Yount
Editor & Publisher, Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal
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