water witching
first shirtsleeves day of february i
go down by the creek where
nettles in their thickets grow,
my dog laps water from the flooded
paths. i pull off my coat and look for
first flowers: crocus, deadnettle,
wild violet—i can’t see their new
limbs now but feel them pushing
up the hard crust of the path.
wore the wrong underwear
today. i take out my knife
and cut them from my body,
so much flimsy bondage.
in my pocket they go to share
wisdom with black licorice
drop, pen, mask. other
pocket detritus. flecks of dirt.
i look for the flower called
honesty, find
a lot of sogged-down
timothy and tattered
blackberry bramble.
i want to bring my
voice to water—
i falter; want to bring
a reading to water
but my wicked eye
goes mute and rheumy.
i took to the air out here
to shake the dust
from my hair. pluck
sour winter from my throat.
put green in my mouth
and swallow. there is a bright sting
under every sopping step—
on my tongue only
purple of torn panties,
chalk of last night’s moon.
jessamyn duckwall (she/they) is a queer, genderfluid poet. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at Portland State University, and serves as Poetry co-editor at The Portland Review. She enjoys reading tarot cards, talking to plants, drinking tea and making soup. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Kithe Journal, and Pathos.
Latest posts by jessamyn duckwall (see all)
- water witching - 29th January 2023