Judy Clarence – Slough
(After viewing a photo of the Columbia Slough, Portland, Oregon, 1935)
A word used
by doctors to describe the golden goo
that forms when wounds
don’t heal. Also mud
or mire. A swamp. A plodding
through that marsh or tide.
An easing off of work.
A creeping laziness. The job
does not get done.
The stuff that sluffs off
a snake that’s shed. A mass
of dead moult, skin or goop
or muck that sucks itself down
into depths of ground or lake
or a deep incision. Down, down
into my leg until, surprised,
it finds the bone.
Judy Clarence, a retired academic librarian, currently lives with her daughter, grandchildren, three cats and two dogs in the Sierra, California foothills after many years in Berkeley. She plays violin (baroque and modern) in several orchestras and chamber groups, has sung in many classical choruses, and writes poetry constantly. Her work has appeared in Persimmon Tree, Amarillo Bay, Shot Glass Journal, Allegro, and Tigershark, among other publications. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Photograph: a shadow by Lisa Wright
Lisa Wright is a freelance writer, book reviewer, and amateur photographer. Her work has been featured in Peatsmoke Journal, mixed mag, unstamatic, Lavender Bones, Atlantic Northeast, and Cool Beans Lit, among others. In her spare time, she enjoys baseball (go Phils!), U.K. dramas, mysteries, and panel shows, cooking, baking, and exploring the great outdoors with her partner, John.