Jan 012006
 

I only did two poems based on aquarium fish, and really, one of the fish was an amphibian. The african clawed frog we had almost seemed like a robot — he lived just to eat. Eventually, this caused his demise, when he inadvisedly attempted to swallow the head of a kuhli loach. Kuhli loaches, like other loaches, have blades somewhere near their head, or sharp barbels, or something. Enough to do some damage, at any rate.


African clawed frogkuhli loachSure enough, the frog coughed once or twice, hacked up the kuhli loach, and then made a face like he had something in his throat. Then he expired. It was a very Quentin Tarantino moment.

The kuhli loach was later found six feet from the fish tank. It’s possible he committed suicide in remorse.

But that’s not what the poem is about. Instead, it’s about the instinctive reactions we all have.

Skin leathery loose, nutmeg
speckled and haggish—he looks plastic—
this frog’s muscles contract, push,
and pale blood pumps past sodden lungs.

On a commuter train, people read
newspapers, smoke their cigs, tap
feet to faulty rhythms, masks
fastened at ears with spirit gum.

African clawed frog: but plastic
doesn’t move fast, drink deep of
instinct, proudly wear claws. That frog,
he moves to get what he wants.

On the train, a young corduroy jacket,
blue jeans, eyeing a secretary whose hem
is ruffled, red skirt, her eyeing him
with a look like annoyance, like hunger—

The frog slips between waters, disturbs
nothing, gulps, releases precious
air—the mathematics of it are
natural: the makeup on her face,

his swagger and sly glances—he’s fast,
that frog, he does as he’s programmed,
like the secretary who looks away,
the young man who laughs—
                                                  some frog!

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.