Year of the Sea Monkey XXIV

My heart jumps
like a one-legged frog
that never fully took form.
The others call it “pogo.”
They call my sweetheart’s
“low hanging fruit,”
but most of what a heart says
is secret.
There is no keyhole
to peek through or advice
columnist who answers anonymous
letters about malformed
legs and voices.
My heart makes a noise
like a dirt bike with an exhaust
pipe full of mud.
The other dirt bikes laugh
until they run out of gas
and have to be wheeled
out of the swamp by a team
of biologists and druids.


Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *