P. terribilis

"Fuck you," she snarls, in the lemon yellow
of her darling back. "Fuck you, lady. By the time
I get through with you you gonna wish you had
never been born. Ask that snake over there. He knows."

She sits still as my heavy fingers fumble
on the shutter, a flat silver button
as big as her head.
A slow blink.

"Fuck you, Mami. I told you, don't
touch me, but do you listen?" She addresses
the canopy at large, the sick-smelling pitcher plant,
the butterfly the size of a textbook
that is watching me with interest.
I do not speak Spanish. I do not
speak frog and somehow she knows this,
yet she does not stir as, like the gilded rings
of the Pope, I kiss her
again and again.

photograph from Golden Poison Frog Wikipedia entry

...please excuse my language. There's no polite translation for that protective coloration.


Kate Horowitz said...

No one can resist.

Kevin Allen Jr. said...

I'm kind of unimpressed. The cussing and the cuteness don't mesh up for me. Also, ruminating on an exotic animal, it feels a little "assignment-y" to me.

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