Rachel Sawaya

Black Eyed Pearls

Mother’s car lights the frog rain.
Be careful,
the frog-spawn stink in the nalgene
lingers. Inside
feel thick mud squelching
toes, pulling them
like an awful lover.


He spits algae strings,
frogs, mosquito larvae,
small children, together
croaking a cacophony
cicadas can’t match
without windblown aspen leaves
without wind.

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