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The Jungle

A poem

Published on:
May 20, 2019
Read time:
1 min.
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There’s a jungle behind my navel
and I am afraid of it:

The purring lioness of my desire
for the crowing lightwork moment
of possession and triumph.

The fierce flowers—
reds and oranges and colors
of dreams I didn’t know
I could have but now
I’m scared will wilt.

The vines crawling
as though they were living
rivers reaching up to introduce
me to the sky that goes up
much farther every day.

The holy green, the spiked leaves
that push outwards with greedy paws
have become my own, 

and I am terrified
of possessing this in my gut. 

All the good that can come
from me suddenly seems
large enough to consider
as its own spiraling galaxy,
reaching its wings out
and inviting me to inhabit myself.

How can I?

Maggie Swofford
Maggie Swoffordis a marketing and editorial assistant at Hendrickson Publishers on Boston’s North Shore. In her free time, she can be found ogling Impressionist art and scribbling bits of poetry and memoir in her writer’s notebook. Connect with her on Instagram (@magswofford) or on her website.

Cover photo by Larm Rmah.

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