Wet Market

***

Wet Market

Across a flyblown plywood counter a young boy stands next to a flaming barrel. The boy reaches into a deep porcelain basin and removes a tiny green frog. He carefully threads the frog through its mouth onto a wooden skewer. As the frog is slid down the skewer, its webbed feet reach for something to cling to, its rear legs kick backward like a desperate swimmer. The boy glances at me and grins, showing me a mouth of small teeth. He wipes his hand on his frayed t-shirt and removes another frog from the basin. He repeats the skewering process. After four frogs have been impaled, the boy winks at me. And then he holds the skewer over the fire that dances above the barrel. As they blacken the frogs pop loudly. The boy skillfully spins the skewer with his fingers, setting off a scattering of black ash and red ember.

He takes the skewer off the flame and hands it over the counter to my mother.

"Anak, ko," my mother says, holding the frogs in front of my face. "Try this. It's crispy like pork skin."

I shake my head no. "But we are not so poor, are we?"

She laughs. When she tries to force me anyway, I turn my head to heave.

***
Possible Edits

Staring at me from its bed of ice

We reached the market, flyblown and teeming with traffic.

***

Original version published in elimae: http://www.elimae.com/2009/09/Lamplight.html