Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-two
Summer 2013
Notes on Childhood Summers
Camille Hugret


The pale breath of morning,

a square of sun across a brass bed.

My cape of Spanish moss trailed

the hushed floorboards.

Downstairs the books on their shelves

smelled of pipe smoke

and quiet churches.


The man next door kept his bed in the wall

and played the violin. The notes crouched

then swelled like the blood-bursting ticks

we pulled from our legs

after coming through dune grass

on our way home.


I once saw an old woman cast a spell

as she sat on the curb beside the Laundromat.

The ancient curses flew from her mouth like bats

and she shook the chicken foot that hung around her neck.

In her dusky purple hand, the claw was curled

as if to scratch at a remembered yard of dirt.


The warm evenings opened like a black umbrella

and the magnolia blossoms closed on the branch—

Argus shutting his hundred eyes.

At night the moon folded small

and slept in my fireplace.

About Camille Hugret

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