In the Dammed Body
This stagnant water. I watch
as a green shroud
spreads across the surface. Still,
I cannot move—cannot
will myself to return
to rivers I once touched, to quench
the parched plains with wet tongue.
I remember
when we feasted and drank by mouthfuls, gulping
air and water, nakedness
tangling in daylight
reflecting bird and bloom in our bodies.
Now earth wheezes
for life—cracks opening
like gills on her long neck, within
the memory of breath
below water. Still—death
transforms—even this motionless
place is a passing through.
Natalie Callum is a writer and poet living between St. Louis, Missouri and Wyoming. When she is not writing, she can be found outside free climbing and exploring with her much beloved husband. Her work has been published in Willawaw Journal and is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly.
