Regarding The Swamp


A moment ago, the swamp
was nothing but a corpse at my feet,
laid out brown and motionless,
held in place by mangrove roots
and cattail spears, no breath,
just the searing decomposing heat.

Then something moved
below the surface,
bubbles popped in rippling water,
two eyes appeared
dun-colored, gray-lidded…
an alligator.

The swamp is still dead.
But now I know what killed it.


Regarding The Swamp

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.
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