ToC

 

OF MARSHES

Caleb Kaiser

On days we'd smother
ourselves in wet reeds, mashing
our muscles until bruises
soaked our skin. When we'd plant
teeth along our spines. Or
fill mason jars with tomato
broth, make reddish swamps
between our gums. Once you
held a head of mud in your
soft hands, a fresh pelt
of marsh womb, and its breath
blistered into thin-skinned
bubbles, squeeming through your
sycamore-still bones. Days we were
made of currents instead of veins,
of clay and fresh-kill, I loved you
enough to pulp my lungs into yours, to          
slip a straw between your ribs.

 

 


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If you want someone else to walk you through the marsh, [she] will show you around.