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.