I haven't held enough toads in this life time.

We were waiting for April's leg hair
to grow again-- she had worn tight
jeans all winter and knit hats
to hide that her scalp was no longer
just peach skin and cat tongue --
we were waiting for the air to feel
breathy and labored like
the birth of flowers in the front 
lawn who knew they would soon
be decapitated like all the female
martyrs-- to bleed warm milk
from their necks-- rain 
water splashing from their
nostrils like faucets--
we were waiting for rain 
to fall like soup ladles. 
And it like creamy chicken noodles--
came just for the purpose
of waking up the toads.
They were each buried like flowering tea and 
lost keys to the garage door
that long ago broke off it's hinges--
We brushed the hand-cut noodles off the 
porch to see the toads waiting for 
us there. My brother, my father, and
I stood to see them all wearing their newest 
stone-skin and wishing well eyes--
My father taught me my hands were
a microcosm-- a cave-- a cradle--
a cage for me to eat handfuls 
of soil with-- but at least
it tasted like chicken noodle soup
when it rained in April-- there
was no chicken-- only rain and
noodles and some sort
of broth that made the toads
tell us stories of how far they had 
burrowed in the earth since we'd seen them 
last. Held each one tight enough
so that their face peered from between
our index finger and out thumb--
I kissed each one but not for a prince--
just for the secrets they told me
about China and the remnants of the 
old chicken coup under the porch--
They told me that I would always be
their first and their last lover--
because toads turn to stone
in October--
Maybe if I held more toads 
and collected less stones I would
know more about chicken soup and China
and I would eat less soil
and be reminded of the things my
father taught me with
toads and my hands and
the microcosms they hold
between my index finger and 
my thumb.