Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twelve Winter 2006 |
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As a Sanctuary Jane Ormerod Blank Like sand Like wrists shackled She’s dreaming of mahogany Stilted conversations suit her Her mother played the field Back then she used to think of poppies Heads on stems in meadow water rain Arriving past noon, past midnight She drifts the last few days and interludes The powerful lamps, so sorry blooms and not by God’s dear grace there smiles Her body allows machinery Her portrait executed by that one grey hen I mean when is enough enough? And hens fly faster than the larks? |
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About Jane Ormerod |