Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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Amada Damon Ferrell Marbut For years I have lived inside you, strode lanes you’ve rarely walked since birth, and you may not desire my stay. True, it has been some time since I wrote you a love letter, but if I were to die, and perhaps I have, you might say, in that voice, that silence is my apology for who I am when I leave the inside of you. Often, when restless, I shifted in your womb and leapt from your body to watch you breathe. I might have become an athlete. I might have stretched at the line of your tonsils and ran, in cold night, to the moist edge of your reason so that I, by your control, would fly upward toward the moon as you watched, your neck slightly turned. I do not know what love means. I do not know what you mean, precisely, and that, in my language, is all I can tell you and all I need to know. |
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