Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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Capture Sarina Bosco keep running around in the woods and your legs will get scarred. no boy will ever want you like that sometimes I think I fell out of the trees on purpose. there is nothing like the dry scrape of bark the loss of breath on the way down the thud of detritus beneath my shoulder blades (ochre leaves like wings) was I born harboring this terror? telling me to run — crash through brambles and flee one type of nature by escaping into another. in bed under moonlight the scars are smooth opaque like miniature lakes. he presses the pads of his fingers to them and my muscles quiver — the deer out in the dark lift their heads the arches of my feet stretch I fight the urge to spill out into the night among blackberry bushes and snow |
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