Holy Clover Patches, Toads in Flight
Knock me down, face in grass: it’s a game that you win when I
chew up clover, a cow or a stupid child too close to the ground,
eating with eyes phantom fourth leaves through the patches.
Face full of half eaten beds, ants swarm like moths from closets
of evening gowns, tear through, clip wings green hearts to fold:
paper eyelets creases unfold to unveil banks: green construction
paper snowflakes dangled from stems like windsocks, the inaudible
slaps of streamers whistling like a lute played by a musician
in another field with reeds and things that whistle at all:
maybe a field blowing through it’s reed like Pan for his audience
but he plays a lute we cannot hear, not from here. It’s just
a game you win you exclaim. But you make me eat these
species endangered til they’re extinct. No two snowflakes are
the same. You remind me that it’s just a game you win when we
play. But blades wheel through to de-cauterize the stems like
cutting open veins, bleeding snowflakes green in through the
green grass accumulating quickly around the ground. It covers
the roads last, like it almost always does down South. Leaves
cut like paper-damsels in distress strapped to the railroad
tracks, slaughtered by dozens by lawnmower teeth or my own.
Knock me down again: I bob for dirt like apples, hands behind
my back, anything but the clovers, no more clovers. I bite
down bumps and slime. I got this. The bulge heaved and shrunk
behind my wrenched lips: you don’t see the green slime rolling
down my chin. I quietly roll toad around in my mouth, like a
jaw breaker or even a spearmint TicTac. Toad did not grow into
prince, charming or not. Always the vaguest metamorphosis for
the prince who might just have a great personality. In other
words. He’s fat. Now chewing at you, my mouth open wide, I
gargle, why don’t you have a shot?
Hock my toad up at you like paintball from a gun. You’re out!
I say that I beat you, after scraping my tongue across a muddy sleeve.
by Angie T. Jeffreys, April 2012