Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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The Fishing Hole Karen J Weyant The fish aren’t biting, and I’m bored. Sneakers untied, shoelaces dragging and dirty, I balance on the banks, see a muddy reflection of a girl whose ponytail has worked its way loose. When I slip into the ripples with a splash, my father frowns and says You will scare away what fish are left. I wander away to find a fire pit bored into the bank, wood burnt black stones kicked out of place. Cigarette butts smash against the ground, the gold glint of a crushed beer can catches the sun. In the shadows, a thin girl leans against a striped maple, her skin pale as the bones of a gutted fish, or a paper birch. A dark haired boy slides his hands up her shirt, caressing her ribcage. His hands are dirty, fingerprints stain the soft parts just above her hips. Her sighs catapult insects into the air. I cup my hands towards each jump, catch a single cricket, its wings pulsing in the palms of my hands. |
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