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Lament of the Swamp Hag by Wendy Barnes

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Wendy Barnes

Lament of the Swamp Hag


I am not your paramour
but made of your leavings,
moss-haired, cypress-limbed and guts

of chum and dogwood-chunked loam.
This season turns you toward your fear,
churning storms and waterspouts,

the livid ocean squalls
and dumps its entrails on the delta.
I can read its plastic, glass, hubcaps,

your errata spelling forth a ruptured past
and a future we fall though
and keep falling.

I am the bog, the swamp, the marais,
its big, meaty maw, selfsame. My nether
aching never was for you

nor tame, a kitchen garden
waiting to oblige, its stick deep,
even furrows.





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