Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Eighteen Winter 2008 |
Home 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 |