Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Eighteen
Winter 2008
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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

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