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This poem is taken from PN Review 172, Volume 33 Number 2, November - December 2006.

Three Poems Carola Luther


Something stirring under the mud, the nosing of buds
the nudging of tubers, and a sudden frog with planetary
rings in its eyes giving birth by my head, purring, purring
pouring out eggs, jellied dots and jellied specks, a lidless
pile of eyes keeping watch round three hundred and sixty
degrees of night and day, while under here the tiresome
boiling of spring, the growths, the growing around me
shifting the crook of my root once again, so I cannot rest
cannot resist the living horde pulling against the grain
of my limb, I turn my hip, I will not look, but still I feel
the skyward suck and a warm dim green on my bones.
Let go Let go I hear the birds, the frogs, the dogs that bark
the fox that sits and stares me out through the holes
in the trembling reflection of its orange and ochre eyes.
I sigh. I'm lost and found. A green blood pounds

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