BULLFROG

It lies in wait at the edge of the pond, placid water on this cool morning. Surely, it is time for
hibernating, burrowing deep into silty layers of leaves. A black-capped chickadee dances along
the lip of flagstone framing the water and mottled remains of the summer’s lily pads. With a 
blink-gulp, she is gone–and I am not sure what I just saw. A grotesque behemoth, all mouth and
hundreds of tiny dagger-teeth, a serrated gardening trowel intent on killing. A lunge, a subtle 
snap-thud, like a rubber band against a thick rug, a gulp of velvet hat and downy vest. During the
spring thaw, I unearth Leviathan’s carcass from the muck. From the feeder, songbirds chirp a
requiem, then a fanfare. For a moment, I share their triumph, then shudder and want to turn away
from the decay coming to the surface as I stare into a fractured mirror and am devoured by a
grin.

Philip Andrew Lisi lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he teaches English by day and writes poetry and flash fiction by night alongside the ghost of his cantankerous Wichien Maat cat, Sela. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Broad River Review, Kelp, Wild Roof, Carolina Muse, Sky Island, Third Wednesday, October Hill, and elsewhere.