THE WOMAN WHO HATES FROGS 

In a teen club’s sweet, secret pact
gone wrong, the girl was left
in a closet to hold whatever
was placed in her hand, no matter

what. Survive this, and be one of us!
Frog slipped from hand, hand to shoulder,
shoulder to floor. The spike of her heeled shoe
pierced the frog’s slick back through to its belly,

spattered her bare calf. Thirty years later,
the woman who now hates frogs
sips juice from a blue glass in her screened-in
patio. She contemplates the hibiscus,

the patio thermometer that rises
with each thinning shadow in the yard,
flaps sandal against heel. Her daughters
know well her fear, guide her path,

in pet and bookstores. In the back yard,
her garden creaks alive with dewy life
before the June sun reaches its
highest point. A frog’s eye can be yellow,

red, a liquid gray. To a frog, a tiny, dark
matter is meaningful, particularly if it moves:
fibers in the eye send signals to snap
its tongue. After a long rain, the woman

sends her husband with an empty
jelly jar to the garden - a cruel harvest
so she may work the soil freely. Makes him
promise to tighten the lid, take its air quickly.  

By Aimee Nezhukumatathil