Hearding Frogs


Twice in my life, I saw
my dad’s penis. When
I was five, we peed

together in the old
bathroom, a converted
center hallway, walled

and plumbed, part
of a former dogtrot
hauled up our hill

with mules and logs
when the road to town
was straightened and

paved. I remember it,
then, something like
a fence post, set

sturdy and strong
at the crown of his
legs. But thirty-five

years later, when
he lay a patient
in bed at Archibald,

when the nurse raised
the sheet degree by
by slow degree, when

I could not look
away, I saw a tired,
cold bullfrog, no

chorus or lek left,
resting on his haunches,
gathering strength

to make that final
leap into the pond.


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