Arsenic Lobster poetry journal        Issue Six   2004
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We Rubbernecks
Alana Merritt Mahaffey

At the Y.
At the Y where you take
Hwy 25 North right or keep
Hwy 65 to the left.
The left turns are impossible.

Seven years later
the man is leaning
across the front seat.

She is dead. He’s reaching
to find her hands. She is
cupping her intestines
close to her body. His

eyes are dead moons. They
move like spotlights. He is
pushing intestines into her.
He is reading her skin like braille.

About Alana Merritt Mahaffey

| Home | Issue Six | Contents | Contributors | Archive | Submission | About Us | Contact Us |