Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty-two
Spring 2010
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Lorca
Jessica Reidy

Green, he wanted green for his collection:
green skin, green soul. He wanted
coin-woven hair and steel guitar.

A castle stood, barring his prism
gypsies. Granada ate his words,
lined him for the shots, swallowed

him into unmarked duende. Growing
ballads crooned him to the lime-water
moon, breathing on gold carpets, sweating

perfume. He cloaked the moon, powdered
like leaves, with palm fronds. He strung
fiddle bows like stitches and pulled around

her lunar body. Falling into her peeling
rind scent, exhaling black sounds,
half-sanskrit, and the rest of tongues.

About Jessica Reidy

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