Irène Mathieu
girl in a swamp
getting too free for her body,
lets her knotted stomach turn to wood,
her skin to bark.
the barking gets closer, so she lowers her rifle into
the water, lethal nose first, and it slips under.
her shrinking feet sniff for home and find it.
girl, who shot at an angry man, is becoming
not-girl in answer to the neck's question.
she calls down thunder and her fingernails become buds.
rain confuses the dogs, who whimper and turn in circles.
her toes stretch into the soil, become hollow, drink.
her digits unfurl, translucent tongues communing with air.
girl is on the way to becoming a common fig.
she closes her eyes.
the men are shouting obscenities,
prodding the dogs with rifle butts.
the common fig does not normally grow in a swamp,
but humans will also give birth in caves, wrap the umbilical cord
with vine to separate child from open-mouthed bayou,
will hold their breath underwater for eighteen minutes
while armed men scour the shore,
and will be the mosquitoes’ sacrificial flesh,
offer themselves to needling proboscises—
before they would return to not-free.
the swamp is speaking, so she nods her branches in reply,
introduces herself, a blooming idiosyncrasy.
from her not-hands drop ripe figs.
they split open in the rain.
the dogs have arrived.
they lick her bark, confused, chew the fruity pulp.
the men catch up, scratch their heads.
the girl has escaped.