I come outside
at the wrong time.

My brother, shirtless,
bakes under the Mississippi

oven sun, tosses
a frog into the air

and watches
its eyes pop

as it nears the concrete,
grinning as it splatters

and looking at me
for further direction.

I nod and watch.
Inside I cool

and await the
coming guilt. I start

to feel my skin itch
and I scratch madly.

I transform into
a stick held in

the sweaty palms
of my brother. He

skins my bark with
a knife, rubs flint, sparks

me, burns me. I crackle
in the fire. In another life,

another world, I’m
fashioned into a spear

by tall Mississippi frogs who
like the way humans


sound when they fall.
I’m impaled on a stick

outside of the frog temple
and long frog tongues **** me.

I’m never offered
to the gods.