A wise woman told me that mixing air and water, intellect and emotion, yields fierce compassion. My lungs, thick with sobs do not believe. Water forces itself everywhere, seeping into soil and air; expanding both, until the air is heavy as a funeral and the ground yielding as a lie. Bogland is neither one thing nor the other and the water steals nutrients from the soil, keeping riches for itself until the pitcher plants resort to eating insects. Tea steeped in these pitchers: tannins stain me, claim me inside and out. Catherine Fahey Catherine Fahey is a poet and librarian from Salem, Massachusetts. When she’s not reading and writing, she’s knitting or dancing. Her chapbook _The Roses that Bloom at the End of the World_ is available from Boston Accent Lit. You can read more of her work at www.magpiepoems.com.