Sep 30, 2014

The Somnambulist

Written by Jennifer K. Sweeney

Read by Michelle Menting

Flight of the marsh queen, winter
branching from her head
topsy over the starhatch.
Glaze and grit, the oatgrass
carries the hunter’s
moon cross the meadow,
the oatgrass bluesy and eternal.
Come round, Come whether-or-not.
The fog rises from the ground,
so much moth-light and brine,
comforting and strange
as waking in an underwater photo.
Is it foxlogic? Fireweed?
On what foreign terms
do I keep arriving
hours past midnight
in this lucid province?
Blackwing, little wind,
how will it be to say
brightly into the thrum
I beat I beat
my water drum?