The Doers Have No Home Here, Or Home of the Dreamer

By Ashleigh Hatter


Lonesome, loathed, languid—
lost—
the Swamp burbles into the
emptiness of the blanketed sky
and hears only its moaning
repeated, verbatim.

A hundred times?
A hundred thousand?

The things that rot in the mire
don’t keep track
don’t care to know or care to care—
they’re much too busy decaying;
aspirations,
what-ifs,
dreams and possibilities and grandeur,
grumbling into fleshy soup—screams
never heard ‘neath the
film of pride that settled over
the waters.
But sometimes, when the Moon’s face is big enough,
when the smells are just right,
when the rain of pity briefly abates; a thing—
an olden, no longer golden, decaying thing—
will break the skin of the surface of the Swamp—
hypodermic—
and it will rise and whimper like the
grumbling of guts, before falling back to fetid sleep,
and the sky will hear it and let the piteous sound
rise past the fog of the Highs, and tough the face of the Sun—
dust on a window pane—
and the Sun may glimmer brighter for a moment
and make something, and that New thing
will smile at the world and will
scoff at the Swamp and all
of the dead things who rest
uneasy, while worms of doubt
burrow through bodies.
And that grand thing will soar—
Icarus—
until a storm’s flash—
jests and jibes and crashing rains of opinion—
burn the buzzing wings;
snapped and plucked,
a cruel child harvesting butterfly’s wings,
and drive the New into
the Swamp, and
it too falls into the
mire to rot, and it too moans
and prays that the
Moon is right and
the smell is right
and the rains abate
so it too can whimper to the Sun;
so it too can entice and remind and
beg for another to join it,
so the Swamp may
be ever fed—
Glutton and truth—
by the good intentions
of the Sun.

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