but you are no longer innocent,
and you don't come from a star

[image from Leonard Baskin's "Birds of Prey" series]

when i was a child and still living in that large house in atlanta, georgia, i used to swim to the bottom of the pool in our backyard and scoop up frogs that had drowned by accident in the chlorine-infused water. i'd bring these frogs to the surface and lay them flat on their backs against the hot, sun-baked tiles that framed the water's edge. then, as if by ritual or meditation, i'd stroke their smooth, white bellies with my index finger, prodding the soft flesh as if i could bring each and every one of these creatures back to life with my amateur touch. i'm still fascinated by this memory. tonight, as i smoke alone in my kitchen with the window open, leaning against the counter to ash in a butter dish, all i can seem to think about is that small depression (about the size of a thumbprint) on a dead frog's belly once upon a time. this is one of those evenings steeped in frog-belly sadness; should i be ashamed?