it’s true. once in the springtime, long ago,
i murdered a frog, in cold blood, stone dead.
first, i pulled off his legs. my hands, aglow
with green guts and frenzy, itched to behead.
in my paw, i held the stiffening thing.
it no longer twitched. i retched, petrified
by shame. gloom came that same spring:
fewer tadpoles. i could never confide
the misdeed. and— years later, someone said
that famous killers, in childhood, killed.
my future was set. my hands were frog red,
tainted from babyhood, stained sick by thrill.
i have an excuse not to be purer:
i’m a fated serial murderer.