Page 46 - WTP Vol.VII #2

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Muskrats on the Ark
It was you two, slick-furred, love-damped noses, from the tunnel under the pond. Did you hear some call, was there a trumpet
or bullhorn, a lure of rushes and mussels? One of you had to know there would be questions. Did you leave kits, naked as herrings wrapped in the cattail lodge? Rat-tailed, bullet-eyed swimmer high dried on a cubit of midden, cubit of cypress, drowning day
by day in the chaff of beast breath, a swamp of beaver, goose and fox, endless teams of two waiting for a chance to jump ship.
Ark Asps
To be Will’s bright-tongued anecdote, Cleo’s final bed-mate, cobra forebear, fork tongued, one tricked—then the aspis, then
the long slide, the sss curve into chinks, cubbies, tiny little hidey holes, two of you, slink to slink, poor venomous fools. You will be the head’s shed blood of Medusa, the hooded snakeskin
robe, designer boot. Will there be grass after the deluge? Will
you be in it, of it, or simply coiled in the remaining dust? Slip out of your skin toad swallower, sucker of eggs, dispatch, strike a pose
SheRyL L. white