are those nights when I am quite sure that
have swallowed something warm and living.
are thousands of thin, dry wings beating in me
an army of big, exhausted brown moths
butterflies, mind you, but moths
dusky moths with eyes on their wings
with the exhausting closeness of death
uselessly against my insides.
on these nights, it is exceptionally hot outside
skin is damp with the heat of all these flapping wings.
is on these nights I most fear that
will burst into pure blue fire if you touch me.
of flight rush from my parted lips when I speak
my whole being aches and trembles to rise into the air.
Mother and The Frogs
long after that one, crippling death
mother began to see frogs
over the backyard.
elegant green frogs
broad, all- knowing faces
secretive, intelligent smiles.
to follow her, she said
they would hold themselves upright
to get a look at her, leaning
on slender green limbs
their delicate white bellies
the cold touch of the moonlight.
congregated at the washsink, she said
seemed as if they were waiting for her
and tripling in number each night
our beds were covered with frogs
our mouths were filled
the short, sour taste
the word frog.
with each slim green frog
appeared in the yard at night
mother began to hope
believe, to dare to think
they have come just for her
to share the secrets
how to walk in the dark.
The Dead Lizard
is the outline of a lizard on our window
out, bleached, petrified mid- scamper.
has been there for weeks, untouched, preserved,
because I cannot bear to move it;
feel its flat, hollowness on the pads of my thumb
hear its dry death crackle against my fingernails,
cannot look at its dusty, crumbling little eyes
at its once busy, now wasted little feet.
must have slammed the window shut in blind haste
in an instant, flattened its little body against the frame.
must have been one of those wild night time rains,
he must have been just darting back indoors
a cool, pleasant evening out.
he is clinging to my mind,
as he clings to the window frame,
out and brittle,
I sit here,
at the little thought we give
the countless windows
The Little Things
all the little things
have crushed beneath our heels.
the countless helpless things
stepped on, spat on and squished
a second thought.
our selective memory
souls that we are.
us for crushing
smallest of things
most fearful and helpless of things
most blameless of things
all this time weve been
bread and laughing
the dangerous ones.