Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-two
Summer 2013
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

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