Slough by Emily Possehl I could not tell you exactly when The swamp became my home There was not a morning where I Awoke to find my bed was rotting wood The floor shifted to salamanders and fog No marsh wren perched on my nightstand To say, “You’ve arrived.” It came in slow, drudging stages Thick, slimy moments that pulled me down Into the mire, the moss curled around My bones, weaving up in spongy spirals Tadpoles swam in my veins Beavers built a dam in my throat My eyes turned to mud I could not tell you exactly when The swamp began to dry up When the dragonflies curled in on themselves Their fluorescent skeletons going dull And quietly crumbled into dust But no escape is ever so complete My clothes still smell of muskrats and algae Toads press footprints across my thoughts The lone blue heron nesting in my heart Whispers, “Come back soon.” Page 35
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