by: Martin Achatz
In the photograph,
She stares at his pickle
skin,
Cold and slick as marsh mud,
Smells mosquito and fly
On his breath, the days of
summer
When only insect and
amphibian
Dance under the sun’s thick
heat.
She thinks of kissing him,
Pressing her lips to his,
Whispering what she wants
Most to his invisible ears:
The boy, with hair so blonde
it glows,
To swing with her on the
playground;
Her mother to help her figure
out
How many nickels make a
dollar;
Her father to comb and braid
Her hair after a winter bath;
Her infant brother to reach
out,
Touch the freckles on her
cheek;
The frog to dive deep into
the well,
Bring back a Christmas
ornament,
Gold, round, perfect.
I want to tell her it’s not
that simple.
Caterpillars don’t just blaze
Into stained-glass wings,
Pinecones into evergreens.
Flippers don’t sprout
fingers, hands,
Arms to hold her, keep her
safe.
There’s nature. Evolution.
Spawn. Egg.
Tadpole. Froglet. Frog.
No prince.
But she knows that snow falls
in June,
Rainbows slice thunderheads,
Hens shimmer into peacock,
Angels appear to girls.
Love can grow in swamp clay.
She watches, waits for the
frog
To swell, open, stretch,
blossom
Into something that will
break her heart.
______________________________
My daughter breaks and heals my heart every day.
I wrote the above poem several years ago. She is still my Frog Princess. Happy birthday, my sweet girl.
Saint Marty is a better human being because of you.
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