Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Eighteen Winter 2008 |
A Small Morning Madonna J. Arsenault Michael walks through the puddle slowly enough to make the sound of waves lapping a corner of the wharf. His clamshell boat floats with its plastic straw mast poking into the fog. The August heat waits just above it, hovering in the hush of morning. He looks up to me and says, Mum, music just came from the earth and the ocean rushed into my heart. |
About Madonna J. Arsenault |