Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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Unshod Risa Denenberg I drive with eyes closed and arrive without shoes. At a distance, my father is beautiful. I try to suck the wound on the baby’s shoulder. I try to kill my mother with a wooden spoon. At a distance, my father is beautiful so I drive with eyes closed. I drive with eyes closed and run into a large bush with elephant-ear leaves. The baby opens her mouth, but can’t find the nipple. I take the baby to the hospital with the bite- wound on her shoulder. We go to the grave site and open my mother’s coffin. There is a small woman going up an escalator. Over and over she falls. Over and over, I catch her. I am in bed with my father while his new wife changes the baby’s diaper. On the subway, I trade my backpack for an empty paper sack. When my mother brings me a cup of coffee, I laugh because I have been awake all night. One by one, babies are being rescued from a deep tunnel. It is a miracle. Previous Poem | Next Poem |
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