Toads and Maidens
By Carol Casey
Don’t assume, because some creature rests in your
palm, that it is safe. It knows it’s not.
A toad, dry, rough, bumpy texture like braille—read the
message: I’m better free. My biochemical language
is telling you something vital in the only way
I have: I want to be free. I can make you sick,
just set me down and wash your hands,
don’t touch again.
I wish I could give our daughters this power
to telegraph toxins to unwanted touch, leers, jeers
innuendos that eat away at, soil on, make a burden
out of walking down the street. No simple way to say
I’m better free. The rage can be toxin, or the pivot
that burns the brush, clears the detritus, takes a stand,
leave me alone, wash your hands, unless invited,
don’t touch again.
Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, Canada. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Leaf, The Prairie Journal, Synaeresis, The Plum Tree Tavern, Bluepepper, Grand Little Things, Sublunary, Oyedrum and others, including a number of anthologies, most recently, Much Madness, Divinest Sense, Tending the Fire and i am what becomes of broken branch. Her recent publications can be viewed on Facebook, @ccaseypoetry; Twitter, @ccasey_carol; and on her web page, learnforlifepotential.com.
Photo credit: Gigi Ibrahim via a Creative Commons license.
