Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty-one
Winter 2009
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Tell Me About Your Tattoos
Sara Tracey

In your apartment, I eat pickles,
read Ashbery, and then you aren’t there.

The twirling of marbles in a glass ashtray
is louder than your favorite scars.

You think elephant lungs are larger
than kites—must be.  The gathering of wind

across canvas like peaches carried
in a gingham apron, bruising.

In my undiscovered god, you are the elbow,
the joint for borrowed cigarettes, cold hands tucked

into sleeves, black coffee. After a day
full of whiskey and sunglasses, I’ll give you

a glove on Exchange Street. Get lost in it.
The point when introductions lead to strangers

(to each other, not you) in an alley, to knees
against cement, to all of this forgotten

in the fluorescence of kitchen tiles
and a sink made for staining. 

About Sara Tracey

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