Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-two
Summer 2013
 
A Hitching, to Get Along Well
Kate Magnolia Glasgow

When I dream of mowing, I think of a girl and her mother, taking turns in the absence of a man. And, the impossibility of that. The act, weight of push in the shoulders, hips. Tripping up in your own groin. Faintly male, even less so female. Tennis shoes stained by turf. A strike against the moor of it, an act of willing service naturally circulated.

A heap, a swath. It was named in the hill where I buried it but I will tell no one. A burning stick of incense in my mouth, wind kept in my freezer. Smoke and smog. No mirrors. I raise my head up to the window and expect to see rituals in your mind. [What I have done to keep this up]. In the hill, my in utero heap. I worry that you will mow around it. I worry that you will make a second killing. Your blade to get along, in lush bounty and not gravel lack. What series of violence could ensue from this gesture you’re doing with your hands? On the wall I make a mural of the field with nail polish. It is almost time for me to fix supper.

About Kate Magnolia Glasgow

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