The Arsenic is a Memory

To what end can it reach back
To childhood’s crawl space and pull
Out my old blanket’s rib cage? It may not
Be a dead hill to climb but it might
As well be; a poison’s half-life goes on forever
Even when it stops killing you as fast
As you want. Why am I aching so much

For so little debris? What small particles,
Barely caught by light can I cling to?
I’m at a bus stop, waiting by a puddle, dreaming
Up the word “puddlewonderful” then remembering
It was buried in a hill. I dream in orange
And mean it to be devastating. I wink
In yellow and devastate myself and the whole block.
Are these the lyrics we’re destined
To hear on every Top 40 station?
The bus dispatcher has no clue

When I can make it back to Metropolis
But it might be visible from the top
Of the next hill? It could be a colder,
Grater day though, and what could I see in that?
I mean, what could eyes? I remember
Grade 2, Unit 9: The Art of Persuasion,
And if I can drag its fossil from down the hill
Maybe I can catch a bus again?

-C.S. Henderson

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