Arsenic Lobster poetry journal        Issue Six   2004
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Sissy
Susan Yount

holds the bloated baby goat.
Tongue licks death. He bawls
recalling neck and I cannot stop this.
Evident Baby is sick beyond kilter,
straw stuck to his teeth. I still
pretend to call the vet,
help support Baby’s neck.
Sissy looks at me with blue eyes
ballooned behind saline. Life whiffs
in her hands and the phone rants
off-hook in empty caress.
Sissy drops to her knees, opens
sticky shriveled lips. Breathes
into him as hard as she can.
His lungs explode with love

and death passes through them.

About Susan Yount

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