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Anne Sexton - The Frog Prince
Work rating: Low

Frau Doktor, 
Mama Brundig, 
take out your contacts, 
remove your wig. 
I write for you. 
I entertain. 
But frogs come out 
of the sky like rain. 

Frogs arrive 
With an ugly fury. 
You are my judge. 
You are my jury. 

My guilts are what 
we catalogue. 
I’ll take a knife 
and chop up frog. 

Frog has not nerves. 
Frog is as old as a cockroach. 
Frog is my father’s genitals. 
Frog is a malformed doorknob. 
Frog is a soft bag of green. 

The moon will not have him. 
The sun wants to shut off 
like a light bulb. 
At the sight of him 
the stone washes itself in a tub. 
The crow thinks he’s an apple 
and drops a worm in. 
At the feel of frog 
the touch-me-nots explode 
like electric slugs. 
Slime will have him. 
Slime has made him a house. 

Mr. Poison 
is at my bed. 
He wants my sausage. 
He wants my bread. 

Mama Brundig, 
he wants my beer. 
He wants my Christ 
for a souvenir. 

Frog has boil disease 
and a bellyful of parasites. 
He says: Kiss me. Kiss me. 
And the ground soils itself.

Why 
should a certain 
quite adorable princess 
be walking in her garden 
at such a time 
and toss her golden ball 
up like a bubble 
and drop it into the well? 
It was ordained. 
Just as the fates deal out 
the plague with a tarot card. 
Just as the Supreme Being drills 
holes in our skulls to let 
the Boston Symphony through. 

But I digress. 
A loss has taken place. 
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot 
into the bottom of the well. 

Lost, she said, 
my moon, my butter calf, 
my yellow moth, my Hindu hare. 
Obviously it was more than a ball. 
Balls such as these are not 
for sale in Au Bon Marché. 
I took the moon, she said, 
between my teeth 
and now it is gone 
and I am lost forever. 
A thief had robbed by day. 

Suddenly the well grew 
thick and boiling 
and a frog appeared. 
His eyes bulged like two peas 
and his body was trussed into place. 
Do not be afraid, Princess, 
he said, I am not a vagabond, 
a cattle farmer, a shepherd, 
a doorkeeper, a postman 
or a laborer. 
I come to you as a tradesman. 
I have something to sell. 
Your ball, he said, 
for just three things. 
Let me eat from your plate. 
Let me drink from your cup. 
Let me sleep in your bed. 
She thought, Old Waddler, 
those three you will never do, 
but she made the promises 
with hopes for her ball once more. 
He brought it up in his mouth 
like a tricky old dog 
and she ran back to the castle 
leaving the frog quite alone. 

That evening at dinner time 
a knock was heard on the castle door 
and a voice demanded: 
King’s youngest daughter, 
let me in. You promised; 
now open to me. 
I have left the skunk cabbage 
and the eels to live with you. 
The kind then heard her promise 
and forced her to comply. 

The frog first sat on her lap. 
He was as awful as an undertaker. 
Next he was at her plate 
looking over her bacon 
and calves’ liver. 
We will eat in tandem, 
he said gleefully. 
Her fork trembled 
as if a small machine 
had entered her. 
He sat upon the liver 
and partook like a gourmet. 
The princess choked 
as if she were eating a puppy. 
From her cup he drank. 
It wasn’t exactly hygienic. 
From her cup she drank 
as if it were Socrates’ hemlock. 

Next came the bed. 
The silky royal bed. 
Ah! The penultimate hour! 
There was the pillow 
with the princess breathing 
and there was the sinuous frog 
riding up and down beside her. 
I have been lost in a river 
of shut doors, he said, 
and I have made my way over 
the wet stones to live with you. 
She woke up aghast. 
I suffer for birds and fireflies 
but not frogs, she said, 
and threw him across the room. 
Kaboom! 

Like a genie coming out of a samovar, 
a handsome prince arose in the 
corner of her bedroom. 
He had kind eyes and hands 
and was a friend of sorrow. 
Thus they were married. 
After all he had compromised her. 

He hired a night watchman 
so that no one could enter the chamber 
and he had the well 
boarded over so that 
never again would she lose her ball, 
that moon, that Krishna hair, 
that blind poppy, that innocent globe, 
that madonna womb.
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