Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-five Spring 2011 |
to do with the price of tea in China Amanda Marie Silbernagel Has not the hatch at four o’clock. Not bar-close, Ouroboros, our need To be taken down tenderly, Dawn-ward & spiraling— Nor have my midnight bitters Gone Earl Grey, a team of wild-mare Spirits dragged behind a team Of drowning bodies Steered lucid to their death, no— Salve, no—Sun (has neither weeks nor months to say nothing of seasons) As where lungs inspire: Life’s idea Of rest is both epic & pending To say needless, to say leave me This snake around my neck Or else untouched, as food For thought is mere dew drop Or if pearl-strung: has not orbit Has not steeped long. Lemons—the bag-lady’s eyes All a-scurvy—bound-to-beg The question of the fruitfulness Of falling: has not leaf-change, has Boat-steam not obscured things Hasn’t night a higher thief Than brute form? Reflection, say. And now, say water color. Bluish constellation sweating Bullets through the dark Noose, loosened noose, that whore Of a noose— Lavish Dread. Let down your hair, this time I drink to you. |
About Amanda Marie Silbernagel |