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Sep 2015
I was born
of the swamp.
I felt foreign toes
come alive
as I stepped out
from salty marsh,
gasping between
the stretched mud
strings pulling
then breaking
on my lips
dripping onto
my thirsty tongue.
Grasping at cow-tails,
I've got a handful
of dragonfly wings
instead. And I returned
sacs of humus
from my elbows
plopped into the water.
I was so thirsty.
Thirsty like the gnats
who met their genocide
at golden-silk orbs--
oh, false sun.
I wander. I pray.
Slamming my knuckles
against the clay
of crocodile's teeth
then I return
to humility.
S K Garcia
Written by
S K Garcia  Chicago
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