Peggy Shumaker
	Horny Toads Vodka bottles stashed in the ragbag torn out knees in pajamas with feet her daughter never took off, too small in winter, cut off in summer, four grubby seasons. Palo verde bent back white spines scraping green skin, writing in languages no one alive could speak, palo verde bent back, pliable feathers velvety as the drunken tongue we waited for her to outgrow, silent as horny toads leathery bellows burrowed into brick-hard earth.