Host

There comes a knock at the door
or, in fact, one low wet slap
and queued across the garden
are frogs, maybe all the frogs.

Look at all your wide wet eyes!

Come in, she hears herself croak,
and they do come in, sad-faced
and travel-sore and she helps
the weakest over the mat.

Mi casa, su casa, friends!

She sets the bath taps running,
lets water swamp the carpet
and throws the windows open
for the flies, the doors for slugs.

You frogs with your funny ways!

She’s gardening more these days,
lies some nights beneath the trees,
hours watching her unlit house,
unsure how this came about.