Jonathan Humphrey
Cold-Blooded, or A River Of Frog’s Blood In My Heart
Late morning. Half of a bullfrog fell from the sky. I saw the heron glance down once and continue flying, dark cross of its body pressed against the unerring blue. And suddenly it was night, and I was nine, and the other boys at camp were dragging me from a dream of my sisters and from a soggy cabin out into the mist. I remember the white shroud about the ground, and how it was mottled with croaks. I remember Nick combing his greasy hair with pale fingers and winking at me. And him reaching into the ditch, and pulling up armfuls of bullfrogs, two and three and four at a time, squirming, thrashing their legs, moonlit bellies perfectly white, like cream icing, like Judas’ teeth, like the ivory roof of a music box. They had me stuff the sticky bodies into pillow cases. I was trembling. I lost count at thirty. The boys squealing, the frogs squealing. I thought of pigs. Pigs being slapped, and stepped on, and being pulled apart. I remember telling myself to be brave. I had to be brave. And I was silent as we ran up the slope of the largest hill. Silent as they dropped their bags of nervous green treasure, lining up one by one along the edge of the hill overlooking the campgrounds, and relieved themselves, giggling, howling, pissing out onto their world. “Enough pussyfooting!” the oldest said. He opened one of the satchels and passed out the frogs. Mine was smaller, yet surprisingly heavy. It felt like agate bathed in melted butter. I thought its heartbeat would dent my palms. I didn’t notice the first frog being kicked, or even the second. The sound was hollowness gathering sound, and came twice. Once as the body was punted, and again when it burst open on the asphalt road some forty feet below. I looked over at Nick. He stared at me with eyes that the moon could not touch. “It’s only scary the first few times, Jonny. Come on. You have to.” I couldn’t smell the honeysuckle. There wasn’t a single star.
rolling thunder what the heron swallowed kicks
*”rolling thunder” first appeared in: The Heron’s Nest Volume XXII, Number 1: March 2020.
About the Author
Jonathan Humphrey’s work has recently appeared in Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, and The Heron’s Nest. With a fondness for whiskey and whippoorwills, he divides his time between the lights of Nashville and the woods of his native Kentucky.