I saw a toad once in Nebraska I thought I could be a toad
Red Poem
My heart drips while I sleep it turns into a gel.
The gel wraps around ants that live under my stove.
I bring them to my hand I put them in a jar.
They turn to red flecks I cry into the jar.
The gel hardens and all of the ants are encased.
Rain comes to my roof and it stays there for days.
I have a red ladder I have empty pots.
Outside the trees burn and birds burn and bees burn.
Some nights there is a red light flashing silent on my wall.
Some nights wake from the same dream.
Some nights sexting.
Some nights wrath.
Some nights fuck me.
Some nights ache.
Some nights no one is there.
Once there was a hive of bees that ate too many cherries.
The woman who found them was also named Cherry.
They made a red honey it came from their grief.
When they died little flames tumbled out of their mouths.
I close my eyes and spin I say cherry cherry cherry.
I close my eyes make myself into a bee.
Once I thought pain was necessary.
Once it was part of a plan.
The fingers inside me put lumps in my heart.
There is a little hole inside the hole that leads to pleasure.
You pulled shoes on my feet you tied them to me.
You tied me to a tree you told me to eat.
Pressed your thumb and forefinger into my cheeks.
Pressed the rind of a lemon into my mouth.
When I kissed you my body became not my body.
When I kissed you a bug died on the ground four feet away.
The bug was big and getting killed by lots of little bugs.
Or they were making food.
Or they used the red to paint.
Or they thrust their thoraxes into the sun.
Or you told them what to do.
Or a gel became our hearts.
Or carbon dioxide came out of our mouths.
The gel wraps around ants that live under my stove.
I bring them to my hand I put them in a jar.
They turn to red flecks I cry into the jar.
The gel hardens and all of the ants are encased.
Rain comes to my roof and it stays there for days.
I have a red ladder I have empty pots.
Outside the trees burn and birds burn and bees burn.
Some nights there is a red light flashing silent on my wall.
Some nights wake from the same dream.
Some nights sexting.
Some nights wrath.
Some nights fuck me.
Some nights ache.
Some nights no one is there.
Once there was a hive of bees that ate too many cherries.
The woman who found them was also named Cherry.
They made a red honey it came from their grief.
When they died little flames tumbled out of their mouths.
I close my eyes and spin I say cherry cherry cherry.
I close my eyes make myself into a bee.
Once I thought pain was necessary.
Once it was part of a plan.
The fingers inside me put lumps in my heart.
There is a little hole inside the hole that leads to pleasure.
You pulled shoes on my feet you tied them to me.
You tied me to a tree you told me to eat.
Pressed your thumb and forefinger into my cheeks.
Pressed the rind of a lemon into my mouth.
When I kissed you my body became not my body.
When I kissed you a bug died on the ground four feet away.
The bug was big and getting killed by lots of little bugs.
Or they were making food.
Or they used the red to paint.
Or they thrust their thoraxes into the sun.
Or you told them what to do.
Or a gel became our hearts.
Or carbon dioxide came out of our mouths.
ERIKA WALSH is a poet and co-founding editor of A Velvet Giant, a genreless literary journal. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Hotel Amerika, Hobart, Visible Poetry Project, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Peach Mag, and elsewhere. She was awarded a residency to attend Art Farm Nebraska, works in Manhattan as an editorial assistant, and lives in Brooklyn with her pet cat, Willa.