The iris in its exigency strives only
to flower. These things are of a marshy sort
and a far way from any Africa.
How did I think I could serve? This soil
is bereft, with only mocking water
below, so catacombed in chalk.
There have been people lately diving to chart
the aquifer. The support staff shadows above ground,
beacon squealing as those below veer in and out of range,
bushwhacking through swales,
knocking on residences.
Would they know, from a slow contrary course,
of the intrepid demise and follow to the output
—“all drains lead to the sea”—after losing one on the mic?
Here is only silt. Precambria stress testing the botany.
Do peristalsis with some originality,
contract like a boa from the inguinal
attachments. Interstitial quilting is
by some fancy needle!
Remember the teacher who
said you could drink from a cup,
standing on your head? Don’t try
this at home but such knowledge.
Swallowing works even up,
plantar surfaces upwards.
Everything needs a decent
airing out. Never on Sunday
and daylight will never come
but always does too soon.
Negotiate a nap, you little sneak.
But the pulsing is transplanted,
permanent. No chance of rejection.
is a Florida transplant originally from Massachusetts. She has been many things along the way: industrial trade publication editor, bartender, librarian, massage therapist, and cheesemonger. Currently Sara works as a freelance writer and editor in Fort Myers, where the odd juxtaposition of all kinds of often kooky people and the natural environment provides rich fodder for her poetry. Lately, she's been fascinated by the honeybee hive that is a new feature in her family's urban garden. Sara's work has been published in places like A-Minor Magazine, Thrush Poetry Journal and Red Fez. She edits the quirky little online journal Orion headless and blogs occasionally at saracomito.wordpress.com.