Vagrant angel of convalescence, our sedulous
messmaking shames the cattails.

(Homemade hula skirts, you said,

& upside-downed them around my waist.
Downy hems, I said, & fluffed

the pods.) I stockpile my mind with purpling

knives of irises, rising like the cow pond
we wade into. Pondwater tenses

then releases our radiant skirts. I wing

my elbows for balance & you, your
wings, bidding the helloing bullfrogs

to plunk in. It sounds like endings

when the surface takes them.
Scummed knuckles & a stick,

I jostle duckweed & algae into a pea-green

orbit. A slimy cosmos, you say, pearling
my hair with frog eggs. To grace me, I say,

scanning the bank for something to cut.

Cecily Parks’s poetry collection Field Folly Snow was a finalist for the Norma Farber First Book Award and the Shenandoah/Glasgow Prize for Emerging Writers. She lives in New York City.