by lesley-anne evans
June hangs humid, and Spring Peepers
call their lungs out just beyond
the pasture fence. They are a wall
of sound, a wave of mud dwellers
all spit and polish in a lovestruck serenade
around the neighbour’s pond.
Pacific Chorus of a thousand perfect pitch
and all for some lithe gal the next field over,
an unsuspecting young thing in a hot chase
of the more and less suited. She’s empty bellied
and he’s thinking she’s a dish
best served soon, riparian delight.
She waits at a meadow edge, held by voices
vying for her and her sisters. All she needs
is a moments peace, hush
in the dark, to consider if a mass of eggs
between her legs
is what she really longs for - with the moon ball
suspending time, a woodland
of knowing eyes, skunk cabbage
unfolding herself, and the pond abuzz
with fairy moth, mayfly, and water strider.
His green question lingers like eighth notes
on the stave of her skin,
dolce
delicato
dolchissimo
the repetitious nature of hunger.
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