untitled (glass) by Nicole Lesnett
the first time i met a bullfrog
i slowly split her open
apologizing over and over under my breath
as i exposed her eggs
and her continuing heart.
a sharp intake as i sharply take
her murky skin, her layers of protection
and rip it, not gently but as best i can, apart.
on her back she laid there with her heart bared
her life at our hands and our scissors, unfair
the way we learn at others' expense.
later on with you,
feeling electric and against your chest
there's a tempo, slightly reckless
reminiscent of the crashing
of sea on shore, of drum beats
and the words you sing
echo again inside my head.
extending our hands
we offer to each other our hearts,
the whole of our glass parts, your eyes the color of
broken beer bottles reshapen by the sea
and i hope that with such fragility, or maybe because of it,
there is strength.
i hope there is;
(i think) i know there is.
