WRITER’S SHACK
Archibald MacLeish, in his wonderful poem Ars Poetica, wrote “A poem should not mean / But be.” Ironic, since he was telling us what his poem meant. But the line came at the end of a world of images he’d created so deftly that we joined him there, understanding through our senses what he meant to convey. Brett Warren accomplishes the same thing. With a combination of striking images that “show” and just a touch of cautious “tell,” she draws us in, letting us experience the poem and, yes, make meaning on our own. In the process, we understand both Brett and ourselves – and our world – a little better. — LAUREN WOLK
Extra Terrestrial by Brett Warren
The toad emerges dry and yellow-green after days of heat and dust, wedges out from under clumps of mulch in the beds. I oblige and water him. He pushes up on bulldog arms and slits his eyes against my rain. The more I water, the darker he gets, the earthy olive-grey a toad ought to be. I move on to the hydrangeas, but I keep him in my sight. From across the yard, I admire his muscleman shoulders and bandy legs, the neckless continuum of his body, the razor stripe of white that splits the warty landscape of his back. I roll the hose and go back to him. I kneel and slip the pad of my finger under his palm. What am I to this convex eye that mirrors like a garden orb? I imagine the bones inside his bony fingers, try to detect the pulse of his blood, take note of the poison gland behind each postorbital ridge. He tolerates me, expressionless.
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