As I stand under the light
of the lamppost
and offer you this toad,
pulsing dry and cool
in my palm, you begin
backing away. You
will read scripts with me,
even improvise, but you won’t
play. You won’t fall down
in the snow with me,
or follow a stray cat,
or take a day trip to the sea
just to jump gaps on the jetty
while the wind slicks one side
of the rocks. I know
this is old childhood,
what I’m asking.
I know this small creature
belongs to the cool grass
I lie in some nights,
naming every star
and shivering. I lower
the toad and release it
into the dark, but feel
its shape linger
on my skin.
A gentleness.
You’re still waiting for me
on the path that leads
home. When I join you,
you touch my head
and say you love my sense
of joy. I let you kiss my
eyelids. Sometimes I can’t tell
when we are still pretending
to be other people.
Abby Shaffer is a human but appreciates frogs and their culture. She fondly remembers her sister chasing and capturing “Toadie” throughout their childhood, but knows now that you should not handle frogs unless you want to stress them out. This saddens her, but that is not the frogs’ fault. They don’t even know what hands are.