Frog Sex
by Kimberly Townsend Palmer

    We heard the air, blowing in and out of the throats
    of the bullfrogs. It made a noise like cool flesh,
    like slapping, like the sounds you make when you're
    wallowing in the tub. The croaking kept us awake
    all night, and in the morning we saw the happy

    pairs, hundreds and hundreds of squat pebbly bodies,
    each one on top hugging the one below, bulging
    jeweled eyes staring at nothing. The sex continued
    all day and night, never stopping. The gelatin chains
    draped the water-weed, black dots like peppercorns,

    seasoning the salad. The frogs seemed to love
    each other, as much as we do when we hug.
    They couldn't read or write, but their eyes held blame.
    We were blamed for having failed at our lives,
    for having fled the scene, for not caring enough

    to stand up and force air from our throats,
    and make our few needs known to the world.
    A few days later the tadpoles followed, squiggling
    through the water, fat, helpless, smooth the way
    your skin is smooth where it touches mine.

    Still their mothers and fathers kept at it. The pairs,
    each holding another, staring at me from the dark pond,
    webbed feet flailing to keep each body steady for as long
    as the feeling lasts. It may last forever, they don't seem
    to care whether they're hungry or thirsty and neither do we.

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