how the water came and went. what repelled it from this land. the full trace. traced back where there are too many moths at the mouth of the creek vena cava heart, cracked, unleashed what I had been holding in, intermingled. I watch the reverse-rot of the flora from behind the glass, wings brushing against my ears, each bolstered by the word that held them captive, spinning in trained circles. shadows undulate on the glass, take me back to when the loam was formed, made, shaped from the muse who falls, bruises, and sighs the carving into existence. the rift remains soft, buffered by her breathing, in and out, slowly, calling for something to fill. night condenses itself into heavy blackberries, which burrow themselves into the empty space, bursting, bleed violet. the creek flows from where it began — below. I watch the first creatures haul themselves to the edge, sip it, and fall, unconscious, not yet used to its toxic purity. clusters of green unfurl, roots deep in the underground. grow delicate red limbs to pull toxic water through and puncture themselves with globules — sundew. filter all that is needed to redistribute decay. the sun dips, grows heavy, tumbles down the basin gathering leaves, birch bark, twigs, bees. plunges, then bobs to the surface, bubbling the creek, turning the lavender water yellow, a boil, and then sinks as quick as its descent began. a fox screams, my hand raises to the glass, melting it away. the creek blows back, breath funnels itself toward the water, making way for me, keeper of this place. keeper of the records. keeper of streams. moths swarm my head clashing in my ears I brush them away but they stick to my skin, leaving trails of deep blue. the scene repeats.
Scarlett Eliza Wardrop is a poet with an MFA from the University of Notre Dame. Her poems can be found in Diagram, DELUGE, and Dream Pop Journal and reviews in EcoTheo Review, Entropy, and Kenyon Review.