Consider the Day
by Matt Thomas
Thousands of mosquito larvae
wiggle beneath the glass of surface tension
spotted with locust petals
slowly spinning, coming to rest
against water lettuce hiding
fat, frowning goldfish
scales like hot, strange alloys.
A puddle from the perspective of the locust, swaying
A spot to the heron dragging its feet, light stooping
to move its shadow from the rocks before settling
on a description, the flocking face of intelligence
orienteering toward a suggested shape; you,
a striped summer chaise, holiday
for the tired, sweating sun,
standing by the pond wearing the hour
and considering a droppered vial of insecticide
like eardrops decades ago
warmed in a soup pan, dragonfly blue bobbing glass
a daydream
also smelling of vegetable heat
and in it rain like
a whiff of dead cloud-animal
beneath the bougainvillea.
Matt Thomas (he/him) is a smallholder farmer, engineer, and poet. His work has appeared recently in Hiram Review, Copihue Poetry and Brief Wilderness and is upcoming in Halfway Down the Stairs and Dreich Magazine. Disappearing by the Math, a full-length collection, was published by Silver Bow in February of 2024. He lives with his family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
