The world is a frog
sometimes, in the rainy season. You
used to know that, but your hopes
made you forget. The green of the hills
are slick frogskin, the rivers
tributaries of lapping tongue, the warts
evident. Drive your rattling
truck into the hills, where
there are still caves and old
coal mines and flyspecked diners
in valleys. Scrape the bugs
from their windows, from your windshield,
stop by the bait shop for a bucket
of live crickets. Frogs want
simple things: insects for breakfast,
wetness, something to swallow. Wait until
the rain comes and beats down
the coal dust, and drive
your groaning truck to the mouth
of a cave or a mineshaft. Don't
think about the thing
in the back of your truck,
bigger than dead flies,
wetter. Park, and cut your lights,
and wait for night to fall.
The frog's green eyes will open,
and its mouth will gape, becoming
the cave, becoming a portal.
The entry to the land
of the dead is a frog's mouth
sometimes, when it rains. When
you run out of hope, you remember
that. Take your bucket
of dead crickets, your brown paper
sackful of flies, the heavy
bundle from the back
of your truck. Walk into
the frog's mouth, between
the fangs. Feed it. Maybe
it will swallow you. Maybe
its tongue will unfurl like
a path. Frogs don't
understand mercy
or forgiveness
but they understand hunger.
They understand swallowing.
They understand
you.