Frog Fishing

The original version of this poem was written in early high school, a few years before I came out as queer. It was rewritten as an adult reflecting on the imposed narrative of heteronormativity.

The best parts of summer
Were when we’d race down the street
In our bare feet, shoes slung over our shoulders
And nets in our curled fists like scimitars.
We’d cut across the scratchy grass and
The tall billowing cattails til we reached the little pond
Owned by the nice old lady at the edge of Timber Ridge
And then we’d set down our gear and peer into the murky filth
And listen for the croaking gulps of the frogs.
Their hesitant “ribbit, ribbit, croaaaaaak” was a harmony,
A domino effect of reptilian voices, yearning for freedom from
The confines of their fifty-foot pond.

I guess---don’t remember, but guess---at the feelings I felt,
When you leaned over my shoulder to see the size of the frog I’d just caught.
I wonder if my heart fluttered when you would smile at me,
Telling me that this was the biggest one you’d seen yet,
And you didn’t know this ol’ puddle could house such
A fine specimen.
I wonder if I knew what a specimen was.

We were oh-so-young
And I wonder if the stars felt any brighter when you were around.
I wonder if I knew how I was supposed to feel around you,
Wonder if I knew then that you were handsome.
I think I wondered what your hands would feel like,
Since I’d seen people with their fingers intertwined,
In those movies your sister used to watch
When she babysat us.
I think I wondered what your lips felt like,
Since I’d seen people with their lips
Shaking hands
On TV,
And in the mall.

Author's Note

Homophobic and transphobic commentary not welcome.