Constantin Preda
Mass Migration
No one expects a plague.
I didn’t while driving
State Road 41 long after sunset
My tires suddenly crushing
A civilization underneath.
In the headlights,
Through the drizzle
And the fog
Thousands of them
Leaping from one side
To the other.
Like driving over bubble wrap
I can’t believe my destruction
Crushing the spines
Of so many – I must stop.
I get out,
Am surrounded
My car idling
My heart thumping
How will I get out
Of this mess?
Frogs everywhere
From the past into the future
All jumping
From some pond
To some lake.
They must have been born
In the woods
Off the roadside
In a body of muck and water.
Sperm shaped tadpoles
Stretched like children
Into sweaters too tight
Pushing their limbs
From their own bodies
Sprouting webbed feet
Excited to use them
Only to be met with
My tires.
The trail behind me:
Smashed corpses
Trampled by the living
Onward toward the darkness
Like all of us.
Plagues are like that.
One moment
My life is speeding toward home
As they tried to do the same.
I ended so many of them.
My heart sinks.
Where can I go?
At my feet
Frogs thrust over
And around my shoes.
Tiny green souls
the sizes of a child's sock
black eyes peering forward
I can almost see
my own reflection.
What message is this
That God sends me
In this humidity
And pain?
I want to stop
The movements of the world.
I want to create safe passage
To stop the murder
Of so many innocent lives.
But I can’t.
I too
Have committed atrocity.
I wanted to get home.
And so did they.
Constantin Preda is a Los Angeles transplant originally from Long Island. He has published poetry in The Amherst Review, The Connecticut River Review, and Poetry International. He loves photography and is often found taking portraits of strangers with interesting faces. He lives with his dogs Clover and Sandy who he likes to think of as his biggest fans, but they probably just hang around for the dog treats.
Mass Migration
No one expects a plague.
I didn’t while driving
State Road 41 long after sunset
My tires suddenly crushing
A civilization underneath.
In the headlights,
Through the drizzle
And the fog
Thousands of them
Leaping from one side
To the other.
Like driving over bubble wrap
I can’t believe my destruction
Crushing the spines
Of so many – I must stop.
I get out,
Am surrounded
My car idling
My heart thumping
How will I get out
Of this mess?
Frogs everywhere
From the past into the future
All jumping
From some pond
To some lake.
They must have been born
In the woods
Off the roadside
In a body of muck and water.
Sperm shaped tadpoles
Stretched like children
Into sweaters too tight
Pushing their limbs
From their own bodies
Sprouting webbed feet
Excited to use them
Only to be met with
My tires.
The trail behind me:
Smashed corpses
Trampled by the living
Onward toward the darkness
Like all of us.
Plagues are like that.
One moment
My life is speeding toward home
As they tried to do the same.
I ended so many of them.
My heart sinks.
Where can I go?
At my feet
Frogs thrust over
And around my shoes.
Tiny green souls
the sizes of a child's sock
black eyes peering forward
I can almost see
my own reflection.
What message is this
That God sends me
In this humidity
And pain?
I want to stop
The movements of the world.
I want to create safe passage
To stop the murder
Of so many innocent lives.
But I can’t.
I too
Have committed atrocity.
I wanted to get home.
And so did they.
Constantin Preda is a Los Angeles transplant originally from Long Island. He has published poetry in The Amherst Review, The Connecticut River Review, and Poetry International. He loves photography and is often found taking portraits of strangers with interesting faces. He lives with his dogs Clover and Sandy who he likes to think of as his biggest fans, but they probably just hang around for the dog treats.