Yahweh the Amphibious
a bullfrog croaks, a ghost
lost in the desert—
hopes of a mate dashed,
only hunger-thirst remains,
hands slapped together
a slimy plea for God’s mercy,
but God’s burning
in the body of a twentysomething
Slovakian, wide-eyed and bony-hipped
in East LA preaching and praying,
patting heads of old white men
tired of Koreans
yanking their sticky souls
and sacred shames.
today, Marketa lets them rest
on her breast, washed in a fog
of Oxy and sweat,
the click-clack of that stuck
oscillating fan keeps her musk
unkempt— damped and flushed,
a slime spot snailing
along the sheets,
tracing the soft fur
traipsing down her spine,
belly full of fishes, scales glisten.
she tries to listen
to him talk of yesterday’s trades,
his breath aching and measured,
leaving her unable to hear
the bullfrog baking in the desert,
muttering grievances
and prayers of vengeance.