NOTHING BUT MUD by Hannah Penttila (Minnesota, 21)

there was once a body here,
a woman, 
pressed off the land 
with pointed sticks.
prickled with shining teeth embers
and words filled with hate.
i have half the heart to hope she melted,
turned herself to rain
to nourish the plants. 
maybe she offered her body as rations
to be dragged off and licked clean 
by the loving creatures she freed from village traps.

as the grass reaches up
to purr at my spread fingers,
i know she is what she has always been.

dirt, soul, and water
absorbed by her mother,
feasted on by those fortunate enough to be without legs.

leaving in spirit
there's nothing but mud.





Hannah Penttila is a poet currently residing in St. Paul Minnesota. She currently works as an Addiction Counselor, but has an ongoing passion for poetry. She has been published in the Riverwhale Review and Wonderful Nonsense literary magazine.