The Morning Frog cannot speak to the Evening Frog,
not directly. And if she sticks her tongue out now,
it is only to better find his place inside what could be a single cell,
so magnified, so that he can use it to swim in this
soon-to-be hibernating world.
Her body has not slowed, nor has her skin gone pale
as his did, and it is not his smell she hopes to taste.
Her tongue is placed inside that child, who came to hide
among the lattice weeds, to sink amid the mud.
It is as though the Evening Frog is listening there
inside a microscopic metal frame
amid that ancient choice he made for both of them,
his choice to live forever in another’s throat.
All our thoughts are coins, he’d said,
to drip back tongue by tongue
into the pond, as though they’re little metal boats,
he’d said, all in a row.