The Willow Across the Creek


by Lisa Thornton


 

We had to sneak the saltshaker off the table
because my mother didn’t like it when we
jumped the creek
and climbed the willow tree
to wait for a slug
big enough and wet enough
to writhe its insides onto the outside,
twist and curl until it laid dead in a pool of its own
slime.

Curiosity
I told myself
was what drove
us.
A scientific need to know.

But she was right,
of course.
What other chance did we have
to be gods within
school bus
dinner
piano lessons
pool?

Lured
by the awesome
power to deal out a gruesome demise

with one shift shake of the wrist.

 


 

 

Lisa Thornton lives in Illinois with her husband and son. She has poetry in Matter Literary Journal, Roi Faineant and Fiery Scribe Review. She has a BFA in Political Science and a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. Maybe someday she will master something. She can be found most days staring out the window waiting for the corn to grow tall and on Twitter @thorntonforreal.