Conciliar Post

All the Secrets

You don’t believe me, look there, part the grass,
he’s walking through the kitchen in his shirt
you laugh he’ll hear you and come looking.
He keeps (I saw it from a faded picture
snagged at midnight on a full-waned moon
a solitary awning’s bulb the best light going)
a frog that talks, oh yes I mean it
don’t you say I lied, I’ve heard it croak
a choked horn’s wheeze that mutters
strains and tells him what roads to avoid
what bets to take, what makes his neighbors
scared and loansome staring up at night
into the dark. I’ll ask and get the picture
then you’ll see. It’s mostly just a shadow
through the window screen. But when
there’s things he wants to know he pulls
its bulging belly up the wall and nails it there
straight through over a line of slime.
You’ll see it in the picture. There’s a shoot of gas
comes out around the nail like propane
from a bad seal silvering the air
and that’s the voice I heard. I smelled it
all the secrets, all the bad stuff, all the things
you name and something breaks.

Photo credit