Anne Jennings Paris

At the boardwalk’s edge,
the rustling sea of sawgrass sings
of what conquistadors tried to find–

      Impenetrable–

misguided: here
in the deepest glade,
I thought I could hide.

      Did I come all this way for nothing?

The only reply
is the incessant chomp–
grasshopper on swamp apple–
suck curl pop–

      I have squandered my solitude–

in the wet heat, I start to unfurl.
A throb of blood
beneath skin, the knot of breath
inside this cage

      wandering the maze of your absence.

Some meanings meet us
instantly. Some take
years to seep
through karst,
pooling
here
beneath the buttonbush.

      Before this land formed, I knew you.

I grew
from this limestone
this water–
      this bone,
      this tongue,
      of alchemy made–
from memory,
song,
and marl–
cell and strata laid in geologic time,
slow-river worn–

      A swallow-tailed kite flies overhead.

Time transmutes color to word.
On the road, a cardinal lies dead,
his fresh blood the exact shade
of crushed wing and tuft.

      Evening comes–like a pilgrim

I drape myself in net, set out
for the hardwood hammock.
Mosquitoes still find ways to get in;
they bite me in soft places
to harden my skin–

      Repent for the ways you forgot to live.

A barred owl swoops down,
alights, her eyes a benediction,
vacant and fierce.

      I ache to speak something new

And here comes the moon–
I want to break her between finger and thumb
like a communion wafer.

Leave me to my strange bed, my silent room.

      Not every prayer needs to be answered.
      Not every emptiness wants to be filled.