Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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LUNCH TIME D.M. Aderibigbe News of her death stains everybody’s lips. I brush through the pages of pains she leaves behind. My sister is a mother at 2— she feeds her doll with the feet of well-wishers who have come to share our grief. My brother pedals on a ghost’s hand, skidding up and down the street. The sun shines from his head. My step-father fixes a stick of cigarette into his mouth— smokes file out of his nostrils like exhaust. His eyes, red like ember pierce through me. The dulcet voice of the radio rings 2 pm— the time for lunch that used to smell of her scrumptious fingers. I look towards the dining— empty like an inactive stadium. I peek into my mother’s bedroom; she’s not there to roll around the bed— thanking God for the lunch. Only her pillow lay at the center of the bed. |
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