Portrait as Glass Frog, or as Mystery

The lab technician draws 
blood into several vials, presses

on the puncture site with a square of gauze
and whips a band-aid across it— In case 

you're a bleeder, he says. After the doctor 
prescribes statins, you stop eating grapefruit. 

Anticoagulants are supposed to balance 
the odds for unwanted clots gathering 

in the dense platelet forests of your  blood. 
I nick a finger sometimes, trying to cut through 

the thick outer skin of kabocha, or separating
the ribcage of a whole chicken from the pink

lining of its flesh. Some faint at the merest 
gash or drop of red— but there are things 

more mysterious than the wound, 
and therefore more disconcerting. 

Even the glass frog, smaller than a postage 
stamp and almost as gelatinous as a gummy

bear, still confounds science—asleep, its organs
hide the blood, rendering it if not completely 

invisible, then barely perceptible. Pasted 
against a leaf like a wet translucence, 

an outline of itself; with nearly all cells 
carrying oxygen packed into the liver's 

styrofoam box, how does it even 
keep breathing? And yet it does. 

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