The Amphibians

FYI: I wrote this as a sestina (more or less), a poetic form in which you use the same 6 words at the ends of the lines in a different order in each stanza. Because this form makes you bend over backwards to fit it, the poem has some reaaaally long lines which wrap to the next line in blogspot's automatic formatting. I don't know how to change the format so the long lines show up on one line, but you can pretty much tell how it ought to read.


Ugly as B. calamita,
the natterjack toad—
warty with glowing devil eyes—or beautiful as the
fire Salamander—orderly flame shapes repeated like the words in
its sibilant name, Salamandra salamandra.
These are the amphibians.

People often confuse reptiles and amphibians.
Yeah, yeah, scientists in a tizzy over definitions, what’s the calamity
in confusing lizards and salamanders?
Respect. It’s important to know the names of things. Amphibians are the squishy ones, those toads
you’re afraid of stepping on in
the rain. Reptiles are the

ones with scales. Caecilians are the
order (Gymnophiona) of legless amphibians
that superficially resemble earthworms or snakes. They mostly live hidden in
the ground, anatomy adapted for a burrowing lifestyle. Only calamitous
events like thunder shake them from their graves to remember their salamander
roots and emerge into the rain that they can feel but not see. Toads

and frogs, the ones that look so silent in photos on nature shows—impossibly loud
sounds bubble from their small throats, mouths closed. The
tropical ones have rain calls made on the basis of humidity cues. Order salientia:
salient rain sinks into their cells, tells them it’s time to sing—
how they must love their amphibiousness.
Then again, they’re awfully small and fragile—the ‘Calamity
Janes’ of the cloud forest—breaking new ground even as they break inside.

Amphibians are like people who cry in
movie theaters—sensitive, totally sappy.
They have a lot of feelings but can’t take it when the
going gets tough. Calamities
send them over the edge—that’s what some think, but me and the amphibians
get along swimmingly. Let me give you a piece of salamander wisdom:

It’s not about being strong. No one can stand up to constant clobbering. Salamanders
survive by fitting in
to a niche. If we take it away, they die. For their sake, I’d like to inject them
with more vitality—they should all be like Leopard frogs-
the easiest ones to catch, the ones that breed like rabbits, the
ones that have sat, clammy

and terrified in my hands, till I’ve let them leap away.