Release
That night, when I got home, I learnt
a tree frog species had been lost
and my body was releasing its usual sum of blood.
I only had a few years left, my mother
often warned, and I watched
footage of the tree frog sitting about
in its tank, the clip of the frog’s “lonely” call.
Was I angry or sorry? Whichever.
This couldn’t be called a crisis. It happened
every month, and I went on
reading about the breeding programmes,
the experts’ relentless watching of the frog
and, as if the amphibian was an unresponsive
photocopier, their frustration, their
tinkering, the time they spent waiting
the way my mother waited and there was still
regret, or was it happiness,
when the tender muscle cramped and spasmed
and the tree frog made its leap away—
lost, they said, or maybe free.
