The Underside of Rocks

The rock in my poem was supposed
to be a metaphor, but while
looking for a graphic I discovered
that there is actually an
International Rock Flipping Day,
and it's almost here.
Flip a rock on Sept. 9.

It was a fine rock, smooth gray and free of lichen
or sharp edges that might rip their jeans or scar
sun-freckled skin. The boys would sit upon it,
talking, arguing the selling points of songs,
discussing all the silly rules their parents stayed
awake at night devising, mocking drama queens
or wondering out loud what makes a person's farts
not smell so bad to them. They sat there on the
rock beside the pond and fished, the sun so hot
the unseen crickets kept their song alive all day.
But also lurking unseen were all types of pestilence
beneath the rock, the kind that have no eyes because
they love the darkness, crawly things with lots of legs
that reek when they are squished. They'd squeal like girls, the boys upon the rock, if they once lifted it and saw the underside. They'd be afraid at first, but one brave lad would laugh and say come here, it's just some bugs. We're bigger, stronger.
We can feed them to the fish as bait.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014