I halt my mower and gently toss my neighbor
to safety from the whirling lethal blades, then
resume the ritual and repeat, saving as many as
I can, only to send them back onto a wider stage—
to be swallowed head-first by a garter snake
or stabbed by a heron, flattened by a car.
A thousand toads die as I ponder their fate.
At least the mower is quick
with not a shred of moral pretense.
No toad would die from my hand were
I not to run this infernal gas-belching
machine across this green desert.
I am but one more accomplice
to murder on a larger scale.
This blood I cannot wash from my hands.
For now, we play out our parts—
toad savior coming to the rescue of
the toad in her breeding pool
with ten thousand eggs
while deaths pile up on the stage
until at last the play is done and all
the breeding pools of life are gone
and no one’s left to save any of us.
This poem first appeared in the collection Shopping Cart Dreams (Kelsay Books).
—
Gene Twaronite is the author of five poetry collections. His first poetry book, Trash Picker on Mars, was the winner of the 2017 New Mexico-Arizona Book Award. His latest poetry collection is Death at the Mall (Kelsay Books). Follow more of Gene’s writing at: genetwaronitepoet.com.
