My neighbor's daughter, who I guess is my neighbor too, is burying her frogs. Her hair is the color of grief but she has none. Shell-blue dress, jack-o'-lantern smile, tendrils of hair that race to the sky. She has to repeatedly stamp her foot on the spade to break ground and it's hard to believe that her body holds all the requisite organs.

When the frogs were alive, she showed them to me, releasing them in my direction, their keyhole eyes stuck in middle distance. We both strained forward to watch them, their torsos sparkling in the watery light. When they made it to the end of our shared driveway, she ran to scoop them up, secreting them into her orbed hands.

A week after the first time, as I was bringing in groceries, she collected me.

I have to get rid of this one, she said.

I anticipated some expired expression, but the chosen frog looked identical to the rest. Why? I asked.

I've had it too long, she said, freeing it into the median strip. That night, I prayed she wouldn't find its jellied silhouette.

Outside, the sun begins to hang itself low, her shadow stretching out long. A lollipop finds its way to her mouth, pulling her face narrow. A calculation is taking place; her cheeks are rosy with exertion.

When there are enough holes, she roots around in each cage and extracts the frogs, legs hanging limply through her fingers like strings. She helixes flowers around their bodies, lupines thieved from three doors over. I can hear her saying each of their names as they are lowered into the ground: Green Bean, Popcorn, Starburst, Kiwi, Tommy, Toast.

I'm not sure I don't want children anymore.


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