TRENT COLTON
Old-Fashioned Candy and Sweet Frog Lullabies
loosely inspired by American Horror Story: Coven
necks craned into a thatched fence giving
stairsteps to the toads,
moths tucking their antlers into their belt loops catching
the ripples for a fading
sunset, leaves rolling firefly obituaries over horned rims,
stirring the tea
and inverting their crosses while the bulls taste
the moan in reverse, the shimmering swampskin folding
quilts over crickets, blackened heels flaking
charcoal hymnals into the walls, asleep, while Mama
and bleak Old Toddy hummed the radio silent and felt
each other’s moss, Daddy LongLeg used to
spit in his own grave while the coffee went sour in a peach-
pitted bowl, June and his ghost
Junior left clocks under the stairs and traced bible verses
into the knots of the whip-poor-willow
where Soots was hanged for dotting needles
with his chirrens’ eyes before
tying cinderblocks to their ankles, holding hands
and walking into the muddied tide, chanting
their rhythms, covering the roses,
now the cradles are hanging
in the trees, outlined in salt, keeping
the snakes wrapped around their apples and pulling
the trinity down from the moon, Baby writing his name
in alligator blood, his hand swaying promises over
opened flames, the Devil stringing his violin in the corner,
running a forked-tongue teasingly over pulse lines,
filing his teeth to needlepoints with the scared
crack of whips, MawMaw stringing greenbeans in the attic, watching
mold bloom up the walls and twirl in the courtyard,
her mosquito-netted wedding gown flowing
out of cottonmouths, rouge dropping heavy
tears in her rheumy eyes, slowly massaging
the glitter from her diamonds and counting
the hound dogs when their rusted throats
toss her decades against midnight’s blackcherry heat,
feeling her breasts when spiders catch hold
of her names tickling over the creaking doors, leaving
Just a small man milling about in the foothills, tasting low-hanging fruit and feeling the creek bed with my wiggling pigglings.
Old-Fashioned Candy and Sweet Frog Lullabies
loosely inspired by American Horror Story: Coven
necks craned into a thatched fence giving
stairsteps to the toads,
moths tucking their antlers into their belt loops catching
the ripples for a fading
sunset, leaves rolling firefly obituaries over horned rims,
stirring the tea
and inverting their crosses while the bulls taste
the moan in reverse, the shimmering swampskin folding
quilts over crickets, blackened heels flaking
charcoal hymnals into the walls, asleep, while Mama
and bleak Old Toddy hummed the radio silent and felt
each other’s moss, Daddy LongLeg used to
spit in his own grave while the coffee went sour in a peach-
pitted bowl, June and his ghost
Junior left clocks under the stairs and traced bible verses
into the knots of the whip-poor-willow
where Soots was hanged for dotting needles
with his chirrens’ eyes before
tying cinderblocks to their ankles, holding hands
and walking into the muddied tide, chanting
their rhythms, covering the roses,
now the cradles are hanging
in the trees, outlined in salt, keeping
the snakes wrapped around their apples and pulling
the trinity down from the moon, Baby writing his name
in alligator blood, his hand swaying promises over
opened flames, the Devil stringing his violin in the corner,
running a forked-tongue teasingly over pulse lines,
filing his teeth to needlepoints with the scared
crack of whips, MawMaw stringing greenbeans in the attic, watching
mold bloom up the walls and twirl in the courtyard,
her mosquito-netted wedding gown flowing
out of cottonmouths, rouge dropping heavy
tears in her rheumy eyes, slowly massaging
the glitter from her diamonds and counting
the hound dogs when their rusted throats
toss her decades against midnight’s blackcherry heat,
feeling her breasts when spiders catch hold
of her names tickling over the creaking doors, leaving
Just a small man milling about in the foothills, tasting low-hanging fruit and feeling the creek bed with my wiggling pigglings.