Hidden


I crouched in a hut made of briars,
a den with a roof of angry vines--
home to a wild boar,
a pocket of bad air.

Strange colors floated in the swamp gas
I breathed, transforming vines 
into slithering, green snakes
sprouting thorny legs,

turning roots into gators, jaws
snapping at my torn ankles,
their weight in the mud
shaking me barely.

I sank into the soggy ground 
like a china doll swallowed
by an unbaked chocolate cake,
my back pressing already bloody thorns.

Out of a black puddle rose
a live, gray cloud,
moving toward me, 
ready to feast on my open wounds

as, in the distance, I hear him
calling for her.








Mandy Holt