Monday, March 30, 2009

The Plague of Frogs

Dime size frogs construct pyramids at my doorstep, hundreds clamoring to be the triumphant piece, the eye to the heavens. This breathing swarm comes to me in the shallow hours of the morning after night rains soak the bog, and drive them to dry. They make me vigilant about my giant steps, wary of crushing their tiny bodies into blotted stains, red and brown, toothpick bones splayed out in post-mortem viewing. My daughter will hear the dirge from the water, and crouch down close to the earth, inspecting death is her proclivity, wrapping her mind around its permanence, her art. The hollow of my heart wants to alleviate the guilt of creating a sadness that will strike its mark upon her face somewhere between home and grandfather’s house, producing tears of crocodile proportions, viable stains I cannot undo.
Aleathia Drehmer 2007
Published by Full of Crow 2/09


Michael Solender said...

this is so melancholy but uplifting at the same time. i really like the fact that children demonstrate proclivity..its so adult! this is a wonderous piece.

Aleathia Drehmer said...

Thank you Michael. After this event happened, I waited for it to happen again the next year and the year after that, but it never did. It was truly a plague of frogs that year. My daughter is full of different proclivities. She astounds me daily. Thanks for stopping by. I don't often get visitors.