A kid said you could chew road tar if you got it before it cooled, black globule with a just-forming skin. He said it was better than cigarettes. He said he had a taste for it. On the same road, a squirrel was doing the Watusi to free itself from its crushed hindquarters. A man on a bicycle stomped on its head, then wiped his shoe on the grass. It was autumn, the adult word for fall. In school we saw a film called Reproduction. The little snake-father poked his head into the slippery future, and a girl with a burned tongue was conceived.
Chase Twichell - 1950-
Don't tell me we're not like plants, sending out a shoot when we need to, or spikes, poisonous oils, or flowers. Come to me but only when I say, that's how plants announce the rules of propagation. Even children know this. You can see them imitating all the moves with their bright plastic toys. So that, years later, at the moment the girl's body finally says yes to the end of childhood, a green pail with an orange shovel will appear in her mind like a tropical blossom she has never seen before.