Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Six 2004 |
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 |