Remembering Tadpoles

My hands on my belly
frame a picture.
In the depths
a tangible shadow
slippery, suspended
with webbed hands and protruding
amphibian eyes.

When we were young
we caught tadpoles,
up to our shins
in a stagnant pond.
They burrowed in the mud, tails flicking madly
but sometimes
we watched them writhe in our hands.
We kept them in buckets,

submerged in backyard hose water,

were distraught when they died.
I tattled on a boy--
grubby and curious, a young Mengele--
who smashed his, squirming, under rocks
and poked at their glistening insides.
Mine merely floated belly up,

translucent and gray.
I dreamt of them often, dead tadpoles.
But I didn’t wake until morning.