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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.



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