When the vet prescribes medicine for your frog,
you think it smells all wrong but use it anyway,
dousing him with goodness of heart,
watching his smooth body drink it in-
and see you've begun to kill him.
His beautiful, turquoise skin darkens and lesions open on it.
You rinse him in spring water,
but he's dying, big eyes gone cloudy.
Everyone tells you
he was just a frog,
but you know
he was a frog of God,
fat green Buddha on his branch.
Now, he looks like the baby in Hiroshima,
burned flesh peeling off. Now, he stares
as you cross the room with eyes
like the eyes of Auschwitz trying to capture
the world's averted gaze.
He could almost be Christ Himself,
emptying the bitter cup
that you, with such pure intentions,
filled to overflowing.
Frog of God by Francesca Bell | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
