Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-one Spring 2013 |
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Mortgage Lifters Liz Martin All summer the water came and went and came back again— our basement a new formed lake, a wet bottomed cave without light, an old lake trying to reclaim a lost sandy shore, or really just a soggy fucking mess. Our Realtor wasn’t clear on these points. Water rose from the concrete like a fish coming up for air, scrambling Star Wars toys with books, DVD’s, dust and first home hopes. Men come in jeans with holes so long their assholes threaten espionage. Two feet of drywall gone, our carpets reduced to sodden squelches of mud without the satisfaction of stick. Tomato plants tilted over, their arms out in yoga, scattered post-hurricanal like a deer hit by an eighteen wheeler. The edges of their leaves curl under. They’ve had the nitrogen flooded out of them, potted roots bloated as stringy dead toads. Mortgage Lifters and Brandywines, hail sliced, an already cracked stem end, but malleable sweetness prevails, a touch of acidity, heirlooms holding strong. Evolutionarily speaking— the adversity’s made them tenacious. So we shuck the floor and walls to concrete, and hope when we gather up the fruit, cut, toss, add smoky salt and eat their scars, we’ll be imbued with a bit of hybrid indecency. |
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