This poem was part of my selection of poetry that won second place for the University of California system-wide 2010 Ina Coolbrith Memorial Poetry Prize.
Toad Man Watching
toad man has black wax hair
that points up thick like dried paint.
you and I can hear his heavy body
mumble from a corridor away,
his footprints glancing
off the poured cement. he is sharp;
one molecule thin along the edge,
sharp as black glass snapped
in half. he
wonders along the edge
of our door. his
hands tremble at the door corners,
like staples in paper
they catch in the doorjamb.
on the inside of the door
you and I cling to one another
and wait for his fingers
to peer over the door corner.
I know that we’ve twisted the top
off a jar of pickled onions:
when the opening is too small
your knuckles get caught,
coated in brine and cold toad water.
toad man snaps the door open
and catches us. his
heavy gullet quickens.
us three are one
molecule apart, before toad man clatters out.
his footprints clack behind him like empty jars.
