Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-five Spring 2011 |
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For Franz Marc on the Occasion of His Thirty-Sixth Birthday (February 8, 1880 – March 4, 1916, Verdun) Karrie Waarala Was it a day like the crush of all days, soot and stink smearing hours into each other, death marching on spindly legs across trenches, palette reduced to churned mud, choked sky, crusted blood on gunmetal. Did you steal any slaughter moments, borrow butcher’s pigments long enough to catch war’s angry tigers, pour them haphazard into kaleidoscopes, or push the peasant heft of draft horses deftly through sharp prism angles. Did any of your singed nape hairs stir hint at the slow whistle of incoming days, head bursting into spray of colors thrumming with life as your canvases, while orders flapped on insufficient wings declaring you too vital to be ground into France. Did you hear the animals weep. |
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About Karrie Waarala |
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