Pumpkin Ash and Cypress Knees
Bald cypress thrusts its knees in knobby little spires just above the waterline. Pumpkin ash bulges at the base of its trunk, engorged with brackish drink. By moonlight, I can almost discern the red spikes of cardinal flowers craning their necks alongside the river’s offshoot, the bayou, with its indecisive flow, my own directional change and stagnation and muddied thoughts poured out before me in the starry pitch. Insects exercise their whirring, clicking voices. I am flooded and ripe with rot. This swamp needs a new tree, and I have knees and full-bodied thirst.
Katherine Quevedo was born and raised just outside of Portland, Oregon, where she lives with her husband and two sons. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award, and her debut mini-chapbook, The Inca Weaver’s Tales, is forthcoming from Sword & Kettle Press in their New Cosmologies series. Find her at www.katherinequevedo.com.
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