Boggess of the Abbey

Boggess of the Abbey

Dawn and i took turns pointing out old bottles and

cans whoever had left in the bog. all decades were

covered, ferns and moss, get your vegetables, baby.

take your time, i am a bottle tween the lips of them

inured to violence, to what gaping mouths, all asking.

to a room let in the farmland, KY; i am pretty fresh,

only the insides are dirty. you ought to have reused

me. i am a Tupperware bowl—tossed into a swamp.

i wld not have broken down for fifteen hundred

years, but you regard me as disposable—hell, even

Elijah might not come to my table, set with them

dollar store place-settings. this meal of ardour,

i am the least expectant, i am sure. and i would be

so embarrassed to share breath in a room with the

man who made me so happy, i thrust him to the

button willows, since he did not pretend to
prefer me to some less holy abbess or his fancy,

new, shiny abyss.