Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty Summer 2009 |
Jacks Shenandoah Sowash The '97 Saab groaned like a tank on cobblestone. My mother and I drove down 4th every Tuesday for ballet lessons. Bone smash. Stop. Who got hit? A 40 year-old woman played jacks in the street because she was insane. She shouted at cars because they were deaf. She was curious. A dog, I told her. I just killed a dog. Her scream sung in perfect tune, syncopated, almost orchestral. You done killed my goddamn dog. I imagined sprouting wings, flying out of the car, comforting the woman my mother's age, buying her new jacks, a better dog. My dog is dead that goddamn bitch done killed my dog. Children gathered to collect the forgotten jacks while the dog leaked. |
About Shenandoah Sowash |