Bog
Julietta Bekker
We stare impatiently at the muck. Awkward
wood boards wiggle under our collective
heft. Rot stench of peat in summer holds the
air close. Pitcher plants wink at flies. Frogs
lurk open-mouthed in half-water, licking
votes. We know but don’t believe it yet:
in a thousand years this quagmire will be
solid ground.
