Naomi Rhema Edwards - convexexile@yahoo.com
The Treehouse
You see, my foot went through this year
The soft spot, where the wood,
Black and full of beetle maggots,
Sinks down and is swelled.
Truthfully, the beetles now are husks
And the wet wood, dust.
The risen creek rots the bark off the trees
Burns red my feet, and the crayfish
Click their claws beneath the rock
Waiting for the pulp of a worm to flow by.
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