Thu Jul 02, 2009


Autobiography of the Prairie

Deborah Ager

The Alachua said, the gods brought us
water. Water came from earth until
water became a lake. Water left
and the lake became a prairie.
I was dust, scoops of pollen, a young couple
making love. I was firm ground under feet,
carriages, the shadows of airplanes.
I would like to have seen more of the world.
I could have been predictable and kind.
I could have been yours. Instead, I waited.
I became the water sucked back and spit up again.
I covered parking lots, filled alligator dens, and receded.
I would be the last leaf left on the branch, kicking
my way to the ground, calling out: you have everything.


Wed Jul 01, 2009


Acarophobia

Deborah Ager

            fear of itching or the insects that cause itching

If I could hear it now, I could dream of it — a hurly-burly bug
Gone mad against the gauzy curtain. Rain on a tin roof;
Lightning became a fear to leave unnamed.
The day fomented torment, and something whispered elegies
Before the bath waters parted their oatmeal waves
And allowed a leg of squealing welts inside the healing wet.
Love condensed itself to a misted fist. Kisses hurt.
Circling bites bloomed in hellfire, blazed to the inner
Lung, to skin that wept the poison outward.


Tue Jun 30, 2009


Before She Was Born

Deborah Ager

Not yet a silver sin — all lanugo, vernix sheen, sheer skin slough.
Not yet called forth to map a vague path home.
She was a green cloud fomenting, roads filled with boiling blood.
She was enough to spook houses that woke to apples and a spark of sun —
Enough to tap the whirring, purring feline from a nap
on the glowering abdomen. I rattled. She roused to water,
that slurry, that grey pool. Raised a dot of fist to suck a thumb.
What held sway beyond that beyond.


Mon Jun 29, 2009


Papoose

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.