Bog Woman

I am bog woman
richly tanned from the acid waters of my sleep,
stretched out on a bed of sphagnum moss
beneath a compact quilt of peat,
waiting to walk into your nightmares.

I feel your weight
upon this sacred grove of Thor
which claimed me for its mistress, a sacrificial lover
with an empty womb, forevermore,
buried in these marshy depths.

I know you’re near
gathering fuel to feed the fires burning on your hearth.
You crush the scrub of mountain ash and thorn
and cut the peat above my heart,
exposing my watery berth.

I remember you—
you thought the bog would drain my memory,
slowly leach out in time the pain of betrayal
but instead it festered, like knotweed inside me
trapped in a cauldron swamp.

I hear your voice cry out.
You stagger from the sight of my umber toes,
you who would not let me live or die,
not fossilize, not decompose,
you, clamoring now in dread.

I am bog woman.
Touch my leathery cheeks and comb my hair.
Go on, open my eyes while you excavate.
Your nightmare walks about everywhere,
determined to seek revenge.