poets often write about running carefree through prairies as if it is romantic.
they don’t know the itch the ***** of thick grass the **** of goldenrod the sting of thistle. they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg waist-high over the other again and again and again waterproof yet sweating just to move ten feet. they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin as the fields give way to marsh grass to cattails reeds to rushes. they haven’t bobbed and balanced up and down and up on floating mats of dead, sewn stalks walking on water a minefield of bog slime.
i haven’t stopped watching my steps since i got that job and i think i’m due for a misstep. i’m looking to stop scratching to stop picking to stop bobbing. i’m looking for a darling weak spot strong enough to swallow me in this swamp. i would bushwhack to her through the pricking the prodding and the stinging put the wrong foot forward plunge through the mat and let her pour over the tops of my waders and sink me deeper and deeper and too deep. i would drown in her.