|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
the ones with answers are in misery.
toppled from high mares or morrows,
split ends nag – recede,
onto shoulder-blades while
where words exist
toward smoothened barns
straw burnt to sawdust,
painted planks lie
to clutch, to comfort
the fall with once-living balsam.
now supplanted, they curse these rows.
fiery words hurled at the goat,
sleeps on the floor not far.
his tumor, the size
of a skull, collects the anger,
absorbs its cancer
and becomes his child.
they hem/they haw:
“it can’t be alive, it mustn’t be
we played no part in its
but, the dirt is done.
it becomes a horse plaything
and within moments disappears.
a flash in a pan
from an animal we’ll never eat.
About Paul Schwarzkopf