Conception

He tells her something that makes her blood look out:
Good sooth, she is queen of curds and cream. And
when Mary hears the angel's words she worries,

What manner of salutation should this be?
Meanwhile, on a far-off island a sad frog evolves.
Her male lays all his sperm into the pores on her back,

the same way a man ejaculates into a crease
in a centerfold, the woman's back to him--her glance
over her shoulder, her finger in her mouth.

The little tailed thing meets the floating body, horns
are honked, there's thrown rice and broken glass, and
the flower willed to be born a flower, in flower

and in the season of flowers. The back will swell
with the fussy load; the tadpole boils growing
until they pop, one at a time, birthing itsy frogs

that hop out the open holes of her back. A shadow is formed
by light falling on weight. She's perforated, the wind blows
the flaps, and her back gapes with hundreds of abject mouths.