Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Eighteen Winter 2008 |
Last Sight of Aris Holding My Postcard of Christina’s World Aaron Patrick Flanagan Scraggly paper birches left off southeast corner, horseflies pause and zip between edges of barn roof lacunas like codas recoil off teeth. I watched them, hands around a shovel handle knowing that, like my ribcage, they can’t contain anything wet anymore. I see this now. No matter this barn was put together with tobacco spit, because tonight as each night, I curl up inside you, inside our barn, how some words ask to lay inside others sleeper, milk, river Then as mornings gone past, when I sit up to cough, the morning doves and sparrows dozing in the hayloft flap clumsily, like wet burlap clung onto by clothespins, before they storm up through the roof as steam like snow crumbles and wets my hands. |
About Aaron Patrick Flanagan |