A Poem by Marilyn McCabe

Marilyn McCabe

Marilyn McCabe

Marilyn McCabe’s book of poems Glass Factory  was published by The Word Works in Spring 2016. Her poem On Hearing the Call to Prayer Over the Marcellus Shale on Easter Morning” was awarded A Room of Her Own Foundation’s Orlando Prize. Her book of poetry Perpetual Motion was published by The Word Works in 2012 as the winner of the Hilary Tham Capitol Collection contest. A grant from the New York State Council on the Arts resulted in videopoem "At Freeman's Farm," which was published on The Continental Review and Motion Poems. She blogs about writing and reading at marilynonaroll.wordpress.com.

from Yield
It seems fitting it fell apart in an orchard,

that disorderly order of hags
who clothe their gnarls in pink and white
then distract with their rouged protrusions.

I was there, but I already knew stuff.

I had nothing to learn. Suck it, snake,

what the bees have left you, gunk
the wasps won't take away. I've eaten it all,
swallowed the seeds. There's a garden
inside my gut. I shit you not. I'm out.



through tangled witch
hazel over a low stone wall tattooed 

in moss, born or wandering, pale trail

clean scented but for the acid tale

of fox. Exile. The parting

feels wild; freedom cold

on the tongue.


Spring came.

Ice shrugged up,
dragging its bottom,

peeing swamp all over,
shit giant scatter of rocks. 

Earth congealed behind it 
but for this

sad trickle: mostly
mud, flickertongue.

Skunk cabbage
drools and pukes. My thirst

is choked in silt and slug.
Small stones murmur in my mouth.


Dim first-light
under the hobblebush

on grimy snow
by two boulders,

agape, a skull eye
washed clean.

If I have a name,
what is my name?