Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty
Summer 2009
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Batter Rage
Shenandoah Sowash

Let's wear our grief like wreaths, pour it waxy, make it into dresses
           with somber ivory buttons,
                      wear them on Tuesdays to the salon,
                                 dress up like pitiable birds for parties.

Marching bands in our eyes, let us assume we are crazy in a comfortable way,
                      like bruised women in purple on the bus,
                                 reading glasses taut around the neck, props that never
                                 reach our noses, let alone our eyes.

When the man says we are sullen aspens, we laugh for a whole hour
           to prove him wrong, light bulb shards in our palms,
                      pithy stigmata, ballad of the working girls.

Those poor girls, dressed as hookers for Halloween again,
                 mothers stuffing starred thongs into purses
                 held closed with old gold chains.

Handling instructions: bring toys, options, and rigor,
           rage like a bald Elvis,
                      dire times like bluegrass.

About Shenandoah Sowash

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