Release

That night, when I got home, I learnt

a tree frog species had been lost

and my body was releasing its usual sum of blood.

I only had a few years left, my mother

often warned, and I watched

footage of the tree frog sitting about

in its tank, the clip of the frog’s “lonely” call.

Was I angry or sorry? Whichever.

This couldn’t be called a crisis. It happened

every month, and I went on

reading about the breeding programmes,

the experts’ relentless watching of the frog

and, as if the amphibian was an unresponsive

photocopier, their frustration, their

tinkering, the time they spent waiting

the way my mother waited and there was still

regret, or was it happiness,

when the tender muscle cramped and spasmed

and the tree frog made its leap away—

lost, they said, or maybe free.