Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Twenty-eight
Spring 2012
Paul Schwarzkopf

the ones with answers are in misery.

toppled from high mares or morrows,
split ends nag – recede,
breathe hot-blood
onto shoulder-blades while
whispers plant
where words exist

toward smoothened barns
they gravitate,
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,
though unassuming,
sleeps on the floor not far.
his tumor, the size
of a skull, collects the anger,
absorbs its cancer
and becomes his child.

displayed to
equestrian neighbors,
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

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