Jack Scott writes

Godfather Frog 
[Part II]

I saw: Godfather frog
at rest in lotus garden pebble nest
just within green-magic lake
presiding over furniture
he might arrange,
but could not make.
So perfect and so emperor
he might be served by fairy staff
his choice of crayfish, salmon, trout
if he had hunger
when homecoming elves and trolls
present him with their catch,
bounty of the spellbound lake.   

He was, as she said, enormous,
more than large enough
to swell and burst belief.                   
Sovereignly safe, his attitude,
monarch of his history and survival,
imperially ballasted on his throne
of rock and stone and gravel,
recklessly ensconced  
two inches from the top -
foolishly vulnerable.

Here was my great divide,
the fulcrum of my human scale,
the reckoning of my tug of war
between impulse and wisdom.
I’d collected mushrooms obsessively
in blind compulsion,
pillaged living things I didn’t need 
for any purpose,
but to try to own them,
plucked beauty from its pristine setting,
powerless to simply feast my eyes
and enjoy enjoyment
instead of orgiastic plundering.                
Killing is the terminal disease
of the ultimate collector.
Addiction’s child was silent
as she followed me back home.

From my tent I got my trident,
long wrapped instrument       
of potential death,
its points impaled  in corks and clad in foil;
around it twined its nylon coil.
Once shiny, new, and deadly,
now well into the age of rust
it was thinner now,
but on this expedition
still thick enough to kill.
I felt awe and power,
a bloodlust much like greed.
My walking stick - a mountain pick -
became a double agent:
when I fit the lethal tool upon this tip
it was harpoon.

Returning to the scene
of the crime-to-be,
we sucked in air
and held two breaths.
He saw us coming,
he saw us there,
godfather frog saw me.

Having much experience
with targets that I’ve missed 
I hoped he’d move, escape,
while he had his chance.
He saw me move.
He did not move.

I struck the king’s own fool, 
the stubborn lord within his pool
and so became his victim.
He was passive
as all points went in  and through,
the spear in to its hilt,
he was that thick.
Needlessly, I pinned him down;
he did not move a bit.
I held him there a long and silent time.

He sat right there and took it,
stared up at me,
but still he did not move.
Cold blooded, intending hibernation,
but overcome by torpor
of too-sudden winter’s breath
could explain his sluggishness.

I raised the monarch up
impaled upon my fork.
The girl said, “My god, he’s big,”
and old, I thought, and old.
Out of water,
weighty as a melon
and about that size.
I feared my spear would break,
but we were bound together.

She ran to tell her husband,
through the suns and shadows,
became smaller, became gone.
I was left alone with what I’d done
and what I’d yet to do.
I’ve heard frogs sing,
so they must cry,
but he wouldn’t make a sound,
and did not move.
He only looked at me and blinked,
the only sign he was alive.

Since he resisted death thus far,
the worst of it,
the killing yet remains.
Revelation in an instant,  
karma in a flash, dark epiphany.
I did not need you
and you did not need me.

I took my trophy home,
my albatross,
and, moving paperwork aside,
set him on my table.
The barbs were cruel;
they would be crueler coming out than going in.
I had no tool to cut them off.

My sharpest knife I sharpened sharper.
Should I kill him outright?
That would be kinder
if I deserved to use that word.
How would I do it?
What was his anatomy?
Where was his heart?
I plunged my knife
into where, on him,
my own would be.
I did it quick.

His blood was flowing freely now.
His pain was moving him
to try - in vain -  at last
to escape the pain and me,
a struggle which I won thus far
because I felt I had to.

I couldn’t find or pierce his heart -
or he could live without it.
Mercy wasn’t possible;           
to end his pain
I must intensify it.
I had no choice,
and acted swiftly.

I tried to cut his head off,
but he had no neck
and cut was but a verb;
he was as tough as leather.
He was clad in leather!

I sawed and hacked at him,
mutilating more.
I hope for John the Baptist’s sake
that he was not as tough
or they had better steel.

I’m sorry, does not do the job,
I’ll go away will not undo it.
I wasn’t simply taking life,
but ruining it by degrees.
I persevered, and so did he.

He tried to breathe -
great gulps -
through his gaping mouth.
His eyes rolled round and round
like something going down a drain.
He was madness in wild motion.
His stubborn head stayed on
because I couldn’t get it off.
I could have used the hatchet
if it had occurred to me.

One hand pressed hard up on him,
the trident in my other hand        
I wrenched at it with all my strength
and empathy,
but could not pull it free.
It tore him horribly.
He lurched,
the king,
the monster tried to leap
and screamed as loud as I.
Blood spattered everywhere.
He loudly writhed his agony.    
I threw the goddamned nightmare -
frog and spear together -   
as far as I could hurl it.