Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Forty-three April 2017 |
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In February 2015 Sarah Blake in a cemetery the Jewish gravestones pushed toppled overturned uprooted defaced as many as 250 I think if one of those graves were mine my ghost would try to recall crying the hunched spine the body heaving I think of the teens’ determination each time a grave destroyed a moment to reaffirm yes another tiring under the physical work of it my ghost would stretch itself so thin crying thinking it remembered crying stretched and belly down against the grass and stones as many stones as it could touch like a shroud a way to grieve as good as any spread out until the sea and then over it spread out until the first living person then over the mouth of that living person right over the mouth |
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