Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Final Issue 2018
Peter with Oranges
Wren Tuatha

I’ll pivot.
Thanks for the oranges and advice.
The citrus of it drips on the latest patch of
my same old rash.
Tart, picked early for importing,
maybe. But they boost me.

You, picky Peter in the pond,
treading water and explaining the
one cylinder diesel engine
while I-as-Lorelai swim naked circles
around you, pond moss in my dreadlocks,
in your beard. Hikers
on the arteries divert their eyes.

We are organs of that larger hungry animal.
You can be the brain, if it would please you.
I’ll be the lungs–belly lungs,
the goddess of the yoga breath.
And words, for me, will cease to be symbols,
just handsome howls and organic grumps.

An citrus corsage over a splinter.

About Wren Tuatha

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