it made us laugh from the calloused soles of our bare feet
to cook worms on the driveway blacktop ;
to see the red-brown critters writhe on that natural stove —
our own contorting slapstick comedy .
we would take a shriveled brown worm
& hold a toad to it , giving him a fine meal
or a wife to his woodland wedding .
( sick to my stomach , I told my momma .
bruises on my arm from my “friend” ,
worms in my stomach , a dark veil of dread up my nostrils . )
we’d throw the sun-fried worms & the toad back in the field
thinking they’d go on to have a long happy life .
( I told my momma I didn’t wanna go back to that girl’s house .
a heavy lead ball
weighing down my stomach — like I was inventing
problems that never were . ) exploring
what it was to be cruel ; water hose
to wash it all down .
An Arkansas native, Sarah Watkins is an educator by trade and a writer by necessity. She currently resides in northeast Arkansas with her husband (surrounded by a chorus of bullfrogs). She can be found on Instagram @sarahwatkinspoetry.