Saturday 5 November 2016

2 Poems by Georgia Knapp

Marshland Tenant

I don’t wear flip-flops because
there are snapping turtles
in between the sawgrass
I fill my lungs with
the salted rotten egg scent
spit and burped from
the gator colored mud with
each slop of a boot
I paint my face with
the burgundy foundation of
the prickly pear’s juice
and eat the bitter flesh
to the croon of the cicada’s tune
I sleep at night to
the lullaby of the mating frog
croaks deep and guttural
that my mother mistook
for ducks
I kayak my brackish waters
slow paddle strokes
unnoticed by the drifting sea cow pup
I meet the watchful eyes
of the sunning prehistoric beast
I ask her –
the landlord of the wetlands –
to watch her tenants
and protect her land
from the developers that will come

Sand Dollar

Convex body
touch of felt
little five points star
petal-like and guiding into
nutritious sand
hundreds of tiny spines
on your belly waving
leaving yellow and green residue
like the cordgrass
of your wetland home

Bleached and dried
polished and strung through with ribbon
hung neatly
from the storefront window
sold for less
than your dollar’s worth
priceless symbol of
your home’s demise


Georgia Knapp is an avid traveler and storyteller. In her previous life she was a National Park Ranger and spent the past several years working for Chicago’s nonprofit theatre scene. She currently lives and writes in the land of Flannery O’Connor. Her works can be found in Wraparound South, The Huffington Post, The Purple Fig, Kaaterskills Basin Literary Journal, ink&coda, and forthcoming in the Georgia Writers Association's Exit 271.

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