| Margaret Attwood Frogless The sore trees cast their leaves too early. Each twig pinching shut like a jabbed clam. Soon there will be a hot gauze of snow searing the roots. Booze in the spring runoff, pure antifreeze; the stream worms drunk and burning. Tadpoles wrecked in the puddles. Here comes an eel with a dead eye grown from its cheek. Would you cook it? You would if. The people eat sick fish because there are no others. Then they get born wrong. This is not sport, sir. This is not good weather. This is not blue and green. This is home. Travel anywhere in a year, five years, and you'll end up here. Copyright, © 2004 Margaret Atwood All rights reserved |
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