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yaga

yaga
by Brock Marie Moore


i made it to the fence
toes bruised bloody by
hours of stumbling over ancient tree roots
and hesitated there
knelt in the mud
resting my cheek against the small dead

as though they could whisper advice
             ~

this way exhausted the days pass
and i breathe heaving into the
sackcloth of my bosom
sucking in TIME

WITHERED THATCH WAINSCOTTED BY SKULLTOPS
CYCLOPEAN CLAWS BLINDLY SCRATCHING
HORSEMEN CHURNING
PESTLE WHIRLING
SELF sickening with envy
  at seeker sandal-falls departing FAVORED
            ~

 no.  no, often they
do not emerge at all
(til gray talons place HER prize atop the fence)
half-ring of teeth eclipsing another
piece of sunlight
           ~

hours, seasons
TIME

i lay in the mud against the bones, and hid
afraid to enter
unwilling to go home

* * *

Brock Marie Moore lives in South Texas with her partner, her dog, three cats, hundreds of actions figures and My Little Ponies, and boxes full of comic books. When not writing she is often reading, and when not reading she can be found at the computer shooting monsters with flamethrowers instead of getting anything useful done (though she insists that saving the universe is the most useful thing she could be doing). Her website is http://brockmarie.net


Where do you get the ideas for your poems?

A lot of my ideas for both poetry and stories come from real-life experiences that made an impression on me: spying someone unusual, visiting an eerie place, childhood pretend games. I take the truth of the matter and then twist it up with something fantastical, something that qualifies it as a tale of the wyrd, while retaining the elements that feel human and real. The poem 'yaga' is a blend of my favorite Russian folklore and my own then-emotions of frustration and fear to 'pass the bone fence.

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