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The moon changes and changes back
like a woman dressing and undressing,
taking her sadness on and off. We don’t
say their names.

We scramble over sandbars like they’re islands
we can conquer. Our skin gets knobbed
by mosquitoes as we squelch through mud
and catch frogs,

and hold them too tightly, and the inside of their bodies
comes out of their mouths. And we don’t say
their names. We lure wary schools of sunfish
with dead horseflies

and crust, and net them. We palm their hearts,
split open, and watch to see which stops
beating first. When they slow, we toss their limp
weight into the lake.