Mary O’Donnell
Monsoon rains, iron rods,
cage the sky. The frog-king moves by stealth, leaves little time to reach for guns.
He has been diligent:
Skies clear, rice-paddies whimper, reflect the light, half-chewed
by Sky-Frog who sleeps in the day.
He sucks from the moon in slow, confident cusps, dims the world
for the demon of death.
o reach for your guns, scare this mottled frog lest the moon is stolen,
let not the dark devour our soul!
They rise in the night, intent on death, aim for his jaws
as they sink around the moon,
palls of smoke tracking each wound.
After: Gekos flicker, banana trees clatter,
night winds brush the tamarind
nocturnal whoopings rise from'the swamp.
Page 57, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 28