Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-one Winter 2009 |
Shenandoah Rachel Adams We take the northernmost trail— rock-ridden and deep red, and marked by blue paint-blazes on the trees, bright bursts amid the green. At its end, a low cabin, splashed with graffiti. And inside, too, words everywhere—miniature ballpoint-pen diatribes, and expletives, and the record book hanging on a nail, brittle and teeming with little histories. Sitting on the rough floor, looking out— down the hill to the river blackened by raincloud-reflection, and down to the sharp gray ridge beyond, like a raised hand— we can see the slow approach of the dark between us, the sort of stifling that is a subtle thing, still mixed-through with calmness, like a sound mixes with the air. |
About Rachel Adams |