Swallow Frogs

It is like how we imagine marriage to be: ravined, gritty, fluid, tumbling, a spigot sucked from the cold winds by the heat of our mouths. Little fires boil the imaginations licking at our innards. Like yeast, everything multiplies inside. Fermentation begins in darkness, in cover. Like how low the clouds hang over Ohio or how a storm mucks at the underbelly of a toad. From their many years of turning soil in the rain, cultivators know when to shut up and listen.

Catherine Moore is the author of Story (2015), 921b Elysian Fields Avenue: (RETURN TO SENDER) (2015), and Wetlands (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her poetry appears in The Southampton Review, Cider Press Review, Wicked Alice, Blue Fifth Review, Caesura, Red Paint Hill Poetry Journal and in various anthologies. She won The Southeast Review’s 2014 Gearhart Poetry Contest. Catherine lives in the Nashville area, where she enjoys a thriving writers’ community and was awarded a MetroArts grant. Catherine earned a Master of Fine Arts from the University of Tampa and she teaches at a community college. She’s tweetable: @CatPoetic.

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