Bullfrog Elegy

I’ve noticed I only get nostalgic when I’m lonely.

Even with the life I’ve left behind me, there’s something

that I’m missing, like the trinkets that spilled out of the 

overpacked trunk of the car in front of us on the way to Ohio;

and even when the very remembering makes me cold and 

blows me around a bit, like the blizzard we drove through

on the way back. I’m thankful for every moment that I’ve 

kept but I’d die to know what I’m missing: the woman in the patchwork overalls 

and green rubber boots who came to collect the sap from the sugar maple down the road 

never knew about the liberal helpings my sister and I would scoop out every winter.

She never knew what she was missing.

Maybe that’s the way to go

I haven’t been made happier for knowing.

Still, wondering makes me feel weak,

knowing I’m a stranger to so much of me.

I want to let the future know how much I adore her,

Feel her pulse with my parched lips and tangle my hand in her hair

I want the future to kiss my head and tell me it’s not as bad as I think,

it’s worse.

Like the night I heard the coyote howl and howl as if her call 

could make the spirit choir drift out of the woods moaning in 

time to the bullfrogs. She waited for an answer. 

No coyote answered. 

And the next day, as I was walking along the side of the road, I spotted a thing

in a pool of blood 

so I knew which spirit the calls had been for. 

You see, I have all these stories that I’d kill for you to listen to.

I think some of them are even true

I want your love more than I want you

But I guess then I’ll know what I’m missing.