Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Forty-three April 2017 |
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Mammatus Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad Cirrus. Cirrostratus. Cirrocumulus. I read about the altostratus clouds and their grayish sheet draping the sky still promising a watery sun to come through. The altocumulus clouds and their shaded orbs aloft before a thunderstorm afternoon. I read about nimbostratus clouds, clotted canvas intimately varnished with ice droplets and premature snow. The tubular roll cloud low above the coast bridging gaseous ends of forever. Cumulus. Stratocumulus. Piles of cauliflower heads. Mammatus. Cumulonimbus. I know this is your favorite. When you push up that oval screen, a cabin-scented blanket pulled up across your chest, you watch plume inhaling plume, fleece layers rupture shaped by white and light and no outline. Curled. Curved. Coiled. The thick breath of atmosphere, exhaling these tower puffs moving calmly between each speeding mile per hour. Full, heavy cotton bursting. With all those days you spend away in air, I wanted to know what keeps you company, what water crystal pattern breeds a smile not over your stoic lips, but within your humming heart. You know I am made of rainbow blood and bone. When did I become so jealous of a colorless wisp ready to melt before a single touch. |
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