After Wilfred Franklin
Being unpacked from the box, handed from him to her, and held. She names me neither
Lithoabtes catesbeianus nor Rana pipiens, but Fred. Free will is almost reduced to tears. She
touches her lips to my slippery back and hands me into the cleanest pond I will ever know. The
waterfall, the ripples, free will calls her a pacifist sociopath. She hands William into my pool.
Another true frog, flattened pyriform body of the problem, amphibia, anura, ranidae. The
professor will pour alcohol into me until I am time-traveling.

Free will is dissected instead. No introductory biology student will slice into my abdomen with a
half rusted scalpel. I dream of old frogs growing into rich food for orchids. I dream of trees with
ponds of dirty water.