carnality

screams echo in the treeline. wary, we jump, but
it’s just the frogs, fucking in this unlikely sunlight
since it won’t come again for months; meanwhile
they will be drafted to war. alone, we can join in:

get all carnal on the bank of this pond, catch a case
in salamander court for indecent exposure, muddy
our names in the polite society of songbirds whose
chicks discuss our ardor with wide, demure mouths.

(springtime is coming so they better learn, anyway)
from above crows regard us with indecipherable
expressions, adding our hair, entwined hands, and
rapturous noises to their list of known undesirables.

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Gabrielle Palmer is a bartender, advocate, and poet on the Oregon coast. You’ve probably told her your life story. Her upcoming work can be found in the Santa Fe Writer’s Project, NiftyLit, and Red Noise Collective’s summer anthology; Gab can be found @gabpalmerwrites on socials.