Stink Spirit
You have found a way to repress it:
That human waste dumped in you,
Stewing in its own juice. The dull pain
Of being almost grounded —
A slowed mutant, inflamed.
A stranger unclogs your slurry guts
Of car parts, bicycles, festering cess.
Pollution is not pretty but its outpouring
Has you moving to sea again — soft-bodied,
Flowing vermiform. After all, a river god.
Deborah Turnbull is awaiting the print run of the pamphlet Devotions, to which she and poet Tony Flynn have contributed ten poems each. She is close to finishing her first full collection. Its title is proving to be more elusive.