Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Two       

Katie Hartsock

Leaving the Forest
 
Throw a frog in boiling water,
it will leap out.
But boil the water a frog sits in?
She has been with him so long.

Underground sprinklers
popped up like periscopes
to the sound of our steps in moonlit grass.
The water wanted us then
in its circumference of spray—
our girlish peals, our pale calves.
We could not take that walk today;
the ground would only be ground.

What separates us from animals:
we can measure the passing
of time, but not all of us can call bluffs.