Martin Hopson

He drives the fishhook

through the soft belly of the tree frog—

its legs like engine cylinders back-

firing in the amber of the afternoon.

I wish he had a good reason

for taking it while it was still alive but

boys bite with god’s teeth, they peel

out the beautiful with their fingernails.

Before long, the creature thrashes

on the surface of the lake,

sunnies savoring the bitter

flavor of its webbed toes.

The sky and the mud look

the same. I can’t look at him

anymore. I tend to the grass

with my weakness,

with a pocket knife that could

have been anything else. Should

have been a watering can, a key—

no. A door cannot be a door

for itself. To try is to

become nothing at all.

We see no whiskers, no flash

of a tail. By dusk, our frog

is a toothache in the sun.

The dead pink light.

Martin Hopson is a poet and creative writing teacher from Downingtown, PA. He holds an MA in creative writing from West Chester University of Pennsylvania. He serves as an associate editor for Peach Velvet Magazine. His work has previously been published by Panoply Magazine and The Chachalaca Review. He has also volunteered at Poetry by the Sea, an annually-held global poetry conference.