Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
| Home | Current Issue | Contributors | Review | 2014 Pushcart Nominees | Order | Archive | Submission | About Us | Misty | |
Under the Factory Ash Kelly Boyker The first morning, we rose from the fields and found our bodies arching toward decay the world stained with a dark ink. It was strange, as if last night’s dough had risen in our mouths festering on our tongues smothering until we realized that there was no more breath. As newly blackened beasts we willed ourselves forward by our teeth Blinking, receding, blinking the dawn, the confounding light. There were many of us but few of you we walked forward brighter than the reddest angels. The virtue of your stainless births was not lost on us, for we were as blood on the snow. Was it snow? Or was it white ash belched from smokestacks? Our eyes peered in at you fingers smeared the butcher shop casing wanted you to die in ways we could not explain our last mouthfuls becoming a crazed light that remained independent of our bodies. Previous Poem | Next Poem |
| Home | Current Issue | Contributors | Review | 2014 Pushcart Nominees | Order | Archive | Submission | About Us | Misty | |