This is the way you want me, then:
milk-supple skin gone a slow sour,
and blood-musky, not metallic
but almost oaken, as though
I held the forest’s earth between my thighs.
In the beginning, did the swamp shudder
with the pain of our leaving?


Tammy Bendetti writes and paints on Colorado's Western Slope, where she lives with her husband and two little girls. In her spare time she enjoys dancing badly and drinking dangerous amounts of coffee.