Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-one Winter 2009 |
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 |