|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|Notes on Childhood Summers
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