Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Final Issue 2018
Wren Tuatha

Thuya, my co, you’re a seed airborne, then
a fallen giant, demanding to be mourned, consumed
right here.

You wander, forgotten god, bitter, then liberated
in strong human form, roots gone to feet, then squat
to plant yourself in your mystified, gnarled opinion.

You contort, give me whiplash–I’m dancing, I’m thrown
to ground. We live motion, then the motion was a lie and
we burrow for the frost line. Debate goes to action and a shovel.

Somewhere, lifetimes ago, a tree got his wish.
Now in regret and better wisdom you wander, look for that hole,
a wounded surface that matches the line of your leg.

Until then all your wandering and dancing are for a grave,
dogging you on, threatening rot.

About Wren Tuatha

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