Frogs

I want to tell you
about the boy I knew down the street
when I was in fourth grade, how he would
  take his dog’s electric fence collar, and
wrap frogs in tin foil,

hooking them to the electric,
 small steel rods of the collar before tossing
them over the invisible fence.

  Zap—

Fried frog, a scent like burnt hair on a stove
  caked with grease.

What was this sensation he felt as he opened the
  tin foil again?

Like opening a note left stuck to his locker
after school? The wonder of what was inside?

He once showed me where he’d find the frogs
  beneath the wooden deck behind his house;

  Look!

He said,

So many of them!

          The collar clenched firmly in his fist.

The frogs,
  huddled tight as slugs
as if they’d heard the marching of our boots
  from above:

mothers, daughters, fathers, aunts,
little ones splashing in the puddles.

SEBASTIAN SANTIAGO

Sebastian Santiago is originally from San Juan, Puerto Rico, but grew up just outside of Detroit, Michigan. He attained his English degree from Central Michigan University and has work featured or forthcoming in The Emerson Review, Poetry South, Up North Lit, Scoundrel Time, BMP Voices, and West Trade Review, among others.