In the end, it never ends.
There are red toads everywhere
this summer and the children play
that game where they stomp them,
then switch each other with hazel
branches and run to the forest before
God has a chance to see. You can’t reason
with the brats and you can’t tell their fathers.
What would you even say to their mothers,
whose hands cradle the necks of chickens
every Sunday; who hold them as gently
as their Bibles, then snap them like
confessions? What could you say
to anyone who lives this way;
hiding, hunting, and praying—
Have mercy on the toads?
Have mercy on me, a girl whispered
as her small shoe fell from a sycamore
and shattered a pile of leaves.
You're so welcome!
Comment early, comment often, keep it civil: