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.
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