Swamp Gift

they say he lives

in the low water

where cypress knees rise like knuckles

air full of moss and rain

nobody remembers when he first showed up

some call him a hermit

or don’t even mention him

just part of the place

like the dark water or birds

he never takes things

just leaves them

a sack of sand on a front porch

a jar of prune pits by a back door

a single smooth rock on a windowsill

children grow up knowing

to wake early and check the steps

like it’s the weather

some say he’s a ghost

or a lunatic

most don’t say anything

I finally see him once

walking out of the swamp barefoot

moving slowly and sure

like someone who belongs

his eyes catch mine

steady as still water

he hands me a small tin box

turns without a word

disappears into the trees

I hold it like it might explain everything

open it, look inside

a bent nail, a handful of mulch
two mismatched buttons

and no explanation at all

Rain at Tipperary Station

I left the city before dawn,

bags light but exhausted

a sheep grazes by the fence

no timetable posted

the train comes once a week

or maybe not at all

I approach the small brick building

stone platform damp with moss

Tipperary sign flaking green paint

rails dark with rain

cupping my hands

to breathe warmth

into the cold iron smell

a single gull drifts over the hill

and disappears into fog

in my coat pocket

a ring of keys I forgot to return

the station clock still ticks

but no one waits

only a paper cup rolling

end to end along the platform

rain my only company

Obedience

I found myself sitting still

the litter box in the corner

hours gone before I noticed

the sour aroma rising

I had not moved to clean it

the cat began to watch me

a calm stare unblinking

as if he understood the change

his eyes fixed steady on mine

quietly saying obey me

soon I was skipping work

to refill his dish with chicken

ordering catnip in bulk

canceling dates and dinners

for extra hours of petting

my mother wrinkled her nose

father scowled at the box

he said this is no joke

toxoplasma gondii lives in there

it gets inside and bends the will

he spoke of rodents drawn to cats

of lives cut short in teeth and claws

I only stroked the warm fur

calm as a priest at prayer

my father said one day you will not know

where the parasite ends and you begin

I shouted for them to leave

kicked the door shut

their footsteps fading on the stairs

perhaps it is my own desire

to serve this harmless pet

or perhaps it is a parasite

humming in my head

telling me I am happiest this way

Baskin Cooper is a poet and visual artist based in Chatham County, North Carolina. A PhD in psychology who lived in Cork, Ireland, he explores folklore, lyricism, and personal history through multiple art forms. His work has appeared in Ink & Oak, Verse-Virtual, O2 Haiku, and ONE ART, with new work forthcoming in The Khaotic Good and The Woodside Review.