Flows from a snarled parking lot by the dam up an alley shadowed by a granite wall on one side, lichen tangled forest on the other, edges and eases in a channel where rises the whale- backed loom of the wall’s offspring and the sunken bodies of downed pines until it opens out into flats of wild blueberry, Jersey tea, and the come-hither tuft of the insectivorous sundew, furl of pitcher plant. I give myself like an ant to this landscape, though I’m supine on a cool cot raised to receive the hot red eye of this lover, the rape of his glance supposing to save me from the internal hunger of my cancer. The technician prepares me with dials and angles, then she hurries to hide from his fierce fire. But he’ll not have me, who can paddle into the welcoming sun, a drift of eider. The hum is a distant plane, a deer fly, a bumbling bee.
Marilyn McCabe's work has been published in a variety of literary magazines, including Nimrod, Painted Bride Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Rhino, and she has received awards through the New York State Council on the Arts and through the Adirondack Center for Writing. Her chapbook Rugged Means of Grace is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She has an MFA in Poetry from New England College.