June 09th, 2016

Last April Poem

I tried to push him out of my hole,
toad, but he wouldn't go. Too big,
they said, my legs spread
for the poem. This was after
those forced breaths, after
I mauled your hand,
bit a Popsicle stick,
gave someone a bloody lip,
someone in scrubs
cleaned up
and then I got lubed
a word, two -- got through,
nothing like a fully-formed
three-liner
someone put on a 45,
Elvis. Squeeze your pelvis,
whispered the poem. I'm stuck
in your passage.
A cheap shot, no doubt about it,
as his head popped
and stuff gushed...
sometimes a frog sings,
said the zen,
sometimes it sticks out its tongueBy Reka Jellema
Copyright 2016