Printer Friendly

The wait.

O hulking carapace,

tipped at the rear into sandy hole, you lay

this clutch of eggs, and stare up through birch-laced leaves--do you pray? For these eggs,

that, buried, must outlast predatious slithers, legs

soft to soft earth, the musk of life's earthbound edges? Shale eye, scaly head, crooked

around scute, maw jutted to heights you have forsook

for ages, being long forsaken, is this spooked deference a plea

for sun to heat these eggs, make hatchlings blackly see

a way through shell and pleats of earth, to smell the sea?
COPYRIGHT 1993 World Poetry, Inc.
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 1993 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Swift, Doug
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
Words:91
Previous Article:Beneficence.
Next Article:Covenant.
Topics:

Terms of use | Copyright © 2016 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters