Rebecca Swanson

CONTACT:
N 9727 Lower McKenzie Rd.
Spooner, WI 54801
715-894-0535
rhswan@sbcglobal.net

BIO:
Rebecca H. Swanson writes across genres from her home on a lake in the woods of northwest Wisconsin where she lives with her life-partner Joe, a photographer and mixed media artist. Together they tend the land, wander, create, and embrace the seasons. Rebecca was most recently published in the fall 2023 issue of Creative Wisconsin Magazine, which featured her poem “Elegy for Mari” and her short-short story “Waiting in Wigan.” She is currently working on a novel, screenplay and her first poetry chapbook. Rebecca is a member of St. Croix Writers, Wisconsin Writers Association, Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and the American Academy of Poets. Rebecca’s children, Cynthia and Lucas, frequently remind her that she is worthy. 

Poetry

Harvest Moon Spider

Hello, Wisdom Wall Walker
eight-legged arachnid
climbing toward lamp light.

I’ve heard of the old lady who swallowed a spider.
Did you crawl into her mouth, sliding
through the corner of cracked lips
as she snored, oblivious in
wine-infused dreams?

Did you wander over beaded tongue,
consider the fleshy uvula blocking air passage
and recognize a no-cling zone?

When the old lady sucked air
and blew it out, did you ride her breath,
land on her flannel nightgown, then madly twist to
release your leg caught on her lace-trimmed collar?

Did you drop on a silk thread from bedspread
to carpeted floor, dart into hallway, then under sofa,
avoiding an old man’s twitchy foot and spastic leg,
its weakened veins returning blood to weakened heart?

You, Wall Walker, approach the floor lamp,
your steps slowing, having traversed miles of floors and
window ledges, having spun bug traps about the house all summer.

The whack of a swatter leave
lacey blood spatters on wall. The old man
returns to the sofa. His leg twitches.
He hears the old lady snore.

Footpaths

Distant deer tracks in winter sun
like seed pearls scattered over
bounteous powdered bosoms,
dip into cleavage, then emerge
from deep crevasse to traverse soft belly.

I trudge home, know frigid wind has already
erased those delicate impressions dotting snowy hills.

Cabin door creaks. I kick off clunky boots,
boil water for tea and drift into the moonlit eve,
my dreams aloft on the northern breeze.