I haven’t always been a frog. 

I was a man, once–

A good man,

A good enough man,

Okay, not precisely 

A prince. 

Then one day, 

The water rose, and lo–

The beginning, sad and slow,

Of my American Amphibian Horror Show.

HOUR 1:

I called the advice nurse. 

I said, “I have neon green atopic dermatitis.” 

“Maybe it’s stress?” she said.

HOUR 2:

I was referred to the dermatopathologist

For a full-body biopsy.

(I don’t recommend it.) 

I said, “Well, what about the webbed hands

And toes?”

He said, “Well, maybe you’re somatizing. 

Have you tried losing weight?”

HOUR 3: 

I was sent on to the transmogrification specialist 

For a consultation and some cursework.

I said, “I’ve got a case of submersion 

Come conversion–

I’ve got gill flaps 

Under my collar tabs.

I’ve got a rising water level, 

And a curse, a curse I’m certain

That if not circumvented shortly

Could put me in a hearse. 

Or–ribbit–a fate much… 

(swampier?)

Well. You know. Worse.”

And the transmogrification specialist said, 

“That’s what we do to frogs–

We put you under water.

You’ve just got an aversion to immersion–

Do you really mean to tell me

That even as you’re growing gills, 

You still can’t breathe?”

The water rose above my head.

My tongue went uncurling 

Unfurling, 

Then, deflated,

It lay still.

Now, I avoid bathtubs, altogether. 

I’m a shower man, through and through.

And, if nothing else,

Orthopedic oxblood brogues 

Really do hide webbed toes

Far better than they used to.

Where would I hide my heart, 

If I had one?

I could put it in the cupboard, 

But the grain moths would find it, 

And lay their eggs in it.

I could put it on the counter, 

But the fruit flies 

Would eat their fill.

It would rot in the fridge for certain – 

Behind the sugarfree Greek yogurt

Whose expiration date passed

Along with all of January’s good intentions.

One day, it would be discovered

By a shocked 

(Fine, an exceedingly

Unsurprised)

Housekeeper –

Or else it might be found

Far later,

By an archaeologist, 

Some thousand years hence,

Who would give it a name for its pains, 

And keep it

In a case of glass,

And show it, infrequently, 

At conferences. 

(Graduate students would submit 

Abstracts

On my heart. 

They would fill their resumes

With incorrect APA citations

Of their poster presentations

On my heart.)

By then, my heart will be 

Too delicate for travel.

It will need to be kept

In some dim back room 

of the Weltmuseum Wien,

And only ever viewed under

Vantablack’s Blackety Black light. 

(For special fundraising days,

They will, of course, display my heart 

Next to Montezuma’s crown

And the Pompeiian sourdough starter. 

Ill-funded postdoctoral scholars 

Will attend mandatory trainings

On the care and feeding of my heart.)

In the meantime,

I will put my heart,

(Such as it is,)

In the freezer, 

With the other meat.

There, it might

Safely keep –

Barring unexpected 

Power outages,

Or, of course – 

The summer heat. 

In the surrealist museum,
My name provides its own instruction:
As the clocks melt off the mantle pieces,
I fling open every doorway.

The garlic toasts itself,
The prosecco bleeds across tablecloths
Scattered with brow-beaten pearls.

Brief as the afternoon sun’s glimmer,
The little bird streaks
In and out
Of the banquet hall.
Behind it,
A half-remembered memory lies Gleaming.

(Did I mention, also,
The tumbling clementines
Strewn so very cornucopiously
Across indigo silk?)

I smear brie on crackling brioche,
And eat crumblingly, and
Keep one eye open.

Perhaps I am a half-eyed half-wit,
as you say.
But how else should I know, then,
when to stop licking my fingers?