Robbie Gamble

Tadpoles

At this point in the life-cycle
the pond is a quivering suspension 
of commas, thousands upon 
ten-thousands of them.

I am graceless 
as a swimmer, plowing 
through their punctuations
as they slither off

my flailing limbs 
in rubbery innuendos,
my every stroke deployed
like a subordinate clause.

If I could but grow a tail
as they are growing legs
then we would undulate
into a common language,

a choreography as thrilling
as the first lustful song of the spring                                                                                                          
peepers emerging from sediment 
once their antifreeze-protected hearts thaw.

Swimming is exhausting, but so 
is survival, and sex is exhilarating, as is 
singing in the choir, also crossing the road 
without getting smushed by a pickup tire.

I am so enamored
with my current mate.
We met on land, 
and there we learned

a musical coda is a tail
tacked on, propelling us together 
as we modulate through
this balmy sonic wonderland.

Back to Issue IX…