A small toad carved from obsidian
regards me with what
could pass for a smile:
for I am hunched, torsioned,
oblique as any letter
in the insect alphabet.
Its sightless eyes freeze me
between a tick & a tock.
What will I do for a knife?
The night holds its tongue
like a secret agent.

This is not a blackness that absorbs light
but a blackness that reflects.
If it were water, I would enter it
incrementally, yielding to absence
like a zipper coming apart.
If it were a mirror, I would mount it
on the stump that used to be my left foot,
so as I walked over the earth, my enemies
would see only themselves
& learn to take the blame for
all their ills.

Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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