Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nineteen Spring 2009 |
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On the Night of her Wake Christina Cook Stars fall from a constellated open hand, land like glitter in our graying hair. We say the night is full of her gifts and serve champagne, red from rain falling through feverish skies, hang paper lanterns from the low gnarled limbs of the laurel and watch them flicker with quiet fire. By the end of the night, we've drained every chalice- shaped bloom of the laurel dry. |
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About Christina Cook |