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The poet slides on her bottom stubborn
As a turtle over slippery stones
Sitting inching picking up the large ones
That hinder her path dropping them to form
An island in the current that’s rushing
At us. I’m on the stream’s descending slope
Walking as best I can, wavering and grope
Ready to fall and hurt myself getting
Safely up to my waist and then my neck.
“What do you call that flower?” “Jewel Weed.”
“It’s beautiful. I think we’re in Eden.”
“We are. I can see a snake,” Bernadette
says—It is peeking from the rocks—and glides
Spreading out her arms swimming by my side.

Drawings by Akram


  1. Janet Dickinson
    Posted 6 Jul ’12 at 6:45 pm | Permalink

    I like

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