of frogs and kissing

“don’t kiss frogs,”
father used to say
scepter in hand
weight bending his brow,
“they’ll hop to your room
with just the one thought
and turn your bed
green with slime.”

mother would just smile
a vague smile
and bend to place another stitch.
the walls filled with examples
of her work in every frog color
greens and reds and yellows
embroidered frogs,
tapestries of frogs,
the stone frog sculpture
she’d carved when I was small
to guard the palace door.

I never played in the garden.
father never gave me a golden ball.
it rested in a crystal box
on mother’s bedside table.

we had a lily pond
where frogs came to sing at night.
I could see it from the guard house
where I’d go to give out kisses
to the gardener’s son
tall, strong,
handsome, brave.

he brought me gifts
to fish from
his pocket
pure green stones and apricots,
rose petals and snails.
once upon a summer’s morning
he brought me a frog
and I knew he was the one
we pledged our fidelity
in between kisses.

father raged and swore
and hopped so high
we didn’t need to duck,
but mother kissed him
and he was still.

my wedding dress was
pure red with green frogs
hopping around the hem,
and all my cousins came.
the chapel rang
with their croaking.

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