By Annwyn Mahoney
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The familiar
feeling of being an alien back on its home planet floats to the surface, a slow
foam I wade into
reluctantly.
I know the
black dirt wants me, and the rocky shore says
my name between
slaps of short waves. They know me
because they
are me.
In the city
park, an owl’s eyes warn:
when your heart
swells with rainwater, do not let them drink. But really, I know it is only
looking at me
to determine if
it could eat me, or I could eat it.
The maw of the
country yawns on its rusted hinges
to reveal a
painted sky over the marsh.
Beauty.
It looms.
Fermented
memory brews.
Annwyn Mahoney
is a visiting student with 2 degrees from ICC in environmental science and
medical laboratory technology. Annwyn has placed in 4 ICC writing contests. She
writes free verse poetry with a compulsion to give voice to feelings and
experiences not easily articulated. She lives in Peoria with her partner and
their dog, 3 cats, 4 fish tanks, hamster, leopard gecko, and hermit crabs.