Poem of the Month
Tabagie Arsenault, 1920–1972

By Marc Plourde

Published on April 2, 2017

Arsenault’s Tobacco Magazines Novelties is closing:
everyone has locked arms and is dancing.
The Arsenaults have given away flags, trinkets,
greeting cards from the ’40s. Everyone dances
so that the floor shakes like the floor of a boat
while musicians huddle in a corner,
hardly noticing the audience,
and young men shouldering film cameras
as they circle the dancers
record for reasons known to film students
a rum bottle changing hands,
the singer’s face, the girl next to me,
her blue eyelids and fingernails —
and there’s a small dog here unseen by the cameras;
as the floor shakes, as the floor rolls, he jumps
straight up and barks at the noise everywhere.

More Poetry

Dead Raccoon on the Highway

I sit next to him on a park bench on a cool summer day. His smile is beautiful. He tells me I am gorgeous. I take ...

To Call The Fair People To Your Aid And Succor

Change your name. Change your clothing. Change your habits and your commonplace routines. Change the routes you use to move across the city’s warp and weft and change the many tools with which you lay your hands on such conclusions as you may.

Press

Indeed you miss the point, my friend. It does stand stubbornly guarding mile after mile of soft and useless dust and wind out of the north with a low whine and the lying mouth of the news— the bitch!—the words and weather both are cutting.