|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
Laura Madeline Wiseman
We didn’t know what shook us—just
hands prodding, more rough than our skin.
The summer night laced by charcoal clouds
our limbs bent to their need a wet,
blind forcing that once opened wouldn’t
close. We scratched at them to stop.
So they pinned us to the ground,
groaning, taking turns. We wanted
to blossom, ripen, be plucked—but not like this.
About Laura Madeline Wiseman