Coat The Skillet

1

Imagine each frog murdered

In the garden

Each frog leg chopped off with a cleaver or two.

2

Frog legs are usually green

But some gardener has tossed these maroon-toned

Amputated thighs into a red netted bag and knotted it in

An incandescent finish.

3

Sitting still in the refrigerator

The skins of the frogs’ legs

Give the appearance of flaky onion skins

Their insides withering, shriveled.

Senescing despicably.

4

60 frog legs in their sepulchral bag.

I pull them out

Unknot the knot

As I yank out the senescent legs from

The flaky empyrean-colored panty hose

Clinging tightly to their wilted muscular

Thighs and chop each

End of their useless

Flesh off—I think:

These legs won’t hop or leap

Insomnolently from one river

Bed of grass to another. They will

Hop right into my skillet.

5

Their legs, diced, will sleep

In marinated red sauce and boiled pork

Broth and pork bones

Like Etruscan lovers

After a nuptial quarrel.

6

The soul of these shallot frog legs

Coats the skillet

With a deliberate sweetness.

Only World War II

Dressed in nude could

Appreciate the elite status

Of their amputation.