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Deborah Ager

Wet and viscous the vapors that slither in mouth-wise.
Sludge and tempura-thick the ground I mash
To mini mountains with hugging, lugging hiking boots.
Little mouth, you clucked and clung to my back —
Toes pressed to lumbar, foes to my comfort.
Twenty days and twenty nights I’d walk this mountain
For you. I’d not ease a silvery sin. I’d curse nary a star
Or stunning sun. I’d not bed for beatified beauty.
Sing and weep. Cling and sleep while I scoop
The scrim of cloven oaks ringing out to warrens
Of rabid rocks — lullaby and hullabaloo —
The news of what’s to come and what comes for you.

Deborah Ager

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