Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Eighteen
Winter 2008
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Madonna J. Arsenault

The fog seeps in across the island,
a gentle harp song,
hushed as mother's milk.
I feel the foghorn in my belly.
I have been called home.
The temperature drops as I cross the causeway.
The sunsets of the coming winter will hold me in our quiet.

About Madonna J. Arsenault

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