Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twelve Winter 2006 |
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Weather Tales* Jane Ormerod My sister is my mother my aunt frida is my mother my grandmother my lodger and friends, father, great-uncle, my legs, shoulders, these arms and palms and hairs and lies and whispered asides this clavicle and stomach night billowing fears my neighbour’s storm broken eaves the local post office with the ruddy faced man yawning daily behind the counter … Let me shout it out, they are all my mother See her hobble across the road skirt trailing daggers performance perfected little steps of death Not much longer now her mushroom skin stinks to the highest water Next month, all she will be doing is trickling down my thighs *Or How to Please Your Therapist |
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About Jane Ormerod |