Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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Sunday Sarina Bosco I burn most bridges that I cross – but this one… I doubt she’s waiting on the other side, rolling a blackberry across those lips like she used to. We’d found the mother of brambles down near the tracks, where the river ate rock into cliffs. Our feet would dangle over the edge, insects whirring around the soles of our shoes. She paused, untangled her fingers from mine. Licked the juice from the corner of her mouth. And when she wouldn’t raise her eyes to mine, I knew – felt it humming in the boards beneath me. |
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