Molly Montgomery
Poetry, performance, and theatrical work.
Richmond, VA.
“Oh, Mr. Frog,” said the heron, “stay in the brush. If I see you, I fear I will gobble you up.”
“Here I am!” said the frog, from the bank of the pond.
The Heron and the Frog
“Oh, Mr. Frog,” said the heron, “stay in the brush. If I see you, I fear I will gobble you up.”“Here I am!” said the frog, from the bank of the pond.“Oh, Mr. Frog,” shuddered the heron, “stay low to the ground. If I look upon you, I fear I will gobble you up.”“Here I am!” said the frog, jumping high.“Oh, Mr. Frog!” sighed the heron, “Stay away from me. If you brush against me, I fear I will gobble you up.”“Here I am!” said the frog, hopping close.“Oh, Mr. Frog!” cried the heron, “Keep out of my beak! If you jump inside, I fear I will gobble you up!”“Here I am!” said the frog, getting in.The heron’s tongue lashed at the frog. Tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh, Mr. Frog, why?” he begged, “What have you done? I will gobble you up.”“I know, Mr. Heron,” said the frog, lying still, “And here I am.”The heron whispered, “I don’t deserve you. Why do you stay?”The frog hummed to himself then kissed the inside of the heron’s beak. Then, soft as a prayer --Blue heron, light of the moon. The June bugs’ song. The shadow on the pond at noon. The heavy day and the brittle night. The roll of clouds and the flash of light. With you, I will brave the drying mud, the burning sun, the rising flood.I called to you. I let myself be seen. I stepped in close. I leapt into your mouth. You still don’t harm me as you feared.I'll wrap my arms around your binding claws, enclosed within the prison of your grip. I'll kiss your beak, though sharp against my skin. I'll lay - belly up - upon your waiting tongue. Its strength will pull me deeper down your throat. I'll trace the walls within, where darkness clings, and touch the folds that line your hollow chest. Or better still, I'll rise upon your back and whisper love along your trembling wings.You will know my love within and without. Whether you savour me. Whether you devour me. Whether you eat me at all.“Oh, Mr. Frog,” said the heron.The frog closed his eyes. “Here I am.”The heron’s beak parted. “Here I am.”
Accepted as a submission for Page to Stage IV, 2026, Starr Foster Dance.
Excerpt from Untitled Novel
There were a lot of people on this platform. A LOT! Jonah had never seen so many people in one room that wasn’t a concert before in his life. Well, that and the airplane, but that hardly counted. He barely looked at the people who boarded the plane with him anyway. But these people, Jonah sighed, it was as if they were born from a comic book. Regular background characters from a comic book, but still. A latina woman with a red shirt checking her phone. A black man with an afro listening to music and leaning against a pole. A woman of unknown ethnic descent haranguing her child. Jonah assumed she was Northern African. What else could she be? Based off of the curve of her nose and the shape of her head, he had narrowed her ethnic possibilities down to Northern African, South East Asian, or perhaps Indigenous South American. But, watching her child really gave it away. It was the shape of the boy’s lips that indicated his penchant for crime that told him her Northern African heritage. Or at least that of the boy’s father’s, if he knew his father at all. Jonah recalled back to his time in college when he had been forced to take an ethnic studies class. At least, he had to take a class that emphasized the differences between people in a way that “helped students understand each other.” But Jonah’s classmate, Marcus, saw promise in him.Marcus was an upper classman and a part of Cappa Alfa fraternity and brought Jonah as far into his circle as he was allowed to bring a Jew. Jonah had tried to hide his heritage, but Marcus could see right through him and taught him all about ethnic identification. His professor did not appreciate the papers that Jonah cranked out with alarming speed after becoming friends with Marcus, but at least the CA boys did.Imani didn’t know about this side of him, but she didn’t need to. He’d use her house to get a leg up and then dump her when he was finished making his fortune in the big city. No union fee required.The train car arrived. It blasted wind into the tunnel. People barely looked up as it whizzed by. Jonah braced himself, clutching his suitcase handle in both his hands. Shoulders seized up and together, jaw clenched. He told himself not to close his eyes but the wind was so fast and stinky that he had to. Eyes shut. Teeth clenched. Knuckles white. What a coward, he thought. The screeching of the wheels filled his ears and the mumbled sound of the announcement soared around the platform. Whatever train this was and where it was going, Jonah couldn’t hear and he didn’t remember. By the time he realized the screeching had stopped and he opened his eyes, half of the people on the platform had squeezed into the cars. New patrons swirled around him, pushing past to get to their house or work or plans. He forgot about his intentions to yell at someone if they touched him and ran down the platform, looking for a car with at least room for one more.As he ran past, the doors started to close, but they shot back open just before they could shut fully. He saw a black teenager with a big red backpack holding the door for him. The man’s shoes were untied. Jonah kept running. Just when he thought his luck had run out, the last car came into view and to his surprise and glee it was empty. Empty!Jonah flew into the train car and the doors slammed shut behind him. The train inched its way forward before taking off at a pace. Jonah sighed to collect himself. And that’s when he noticed the smell.On the platform, it was damp, sure. Electrical, almost metallic dampness. The smell of sweat and food and perfume mixed with the earth and tracks to make something new and inspiring. But, in this train car, there was something different altogether. The damp became must, the must of wet fur. Grease and oil and piss mixed with the regular smells of the fabric of the seats and cleaning products used in the cars. A new metallic smell - almost iron and sour. Sweat and spit. Fermentation. The fermented smell was actually incredibly strong. Sour Mold. Rotten eggs. Fatty, heavy smells mixed with sharp, quick ones. Putrid rot. This car was rank. Jonah had made a mistake. He hadn’t heard about this side of New Yorc.At the other end of the car was a mass. That was the only way he could describe it. A shifting heavy mass of something in one of the pregnancy seats. Jonah grew closer and as he did, the smell grew stronger and more vile. As did the sound of scratching, gnawing, and cittering. Jonah was halfway through the car when he realized that whatever it was covered the body of a man.The man’s mouth was agape, and his eyes were open. His fingers curled in the air and whatever the thing was molded and flashed between and around his hands. As Jonah grew closer, he heard gasps and groans. The man was alive. He also heard the tearing of flesh. The thing was eating him.Jonah took one step closer - one last step - and his suitcase clattered against a stability pole. The thing stopped. Jonah stopped. The man’s breathing was shallower than before. Then, the thing turned. Jonah’s heart dropped as fast as his body did as the eyes of a million entangled and convulsing rats locked with his. Then, they were on him.
"Sexy"
I don't like to think that I have a particularly extensive experience with harassment. I mean, I can probably count on one hand all of the times I've been cat-called. One time was in high school. I was walking to class, and some kid said something like, "I can make you my princess." Or whatever. Another was while I was in my sophomore year. Someone whistled at me as I walked past. I barely even remember it. Another time was pretty recent, while I was studying abroad. Don’t worry; nothing too bad or anything. Standard stuff, you know.A lot of people would respond when I told them I studied abroad in Korea with, “Oh, yeah! You’ve gotta be careful in Seoul. Misogyny and sexual harassment are big issues over there.” My friends have stories upon stories of them getting stared at, followed, cat-called, or even groped on the street, in stores, and on public transport -- just, everywhere. But, how bad can it be, really? Can't believe everything you hear. You know, you can see sketchy behavior anywhere, in any country. I wasn't super worried. Besides, who would look at me and think, “Ah… I'd love to assault that lesbian.” So, I mostly walked with my headphones in to avoid noticing it if it happened - when it did happen. I’ve always been in my own little world anyway so whenever any of that did happen to me, I doubt I would’ve said anything anyway.One weekend, my friends and I went on a trip to this smaller town in the south. We were walking to dinner, and I was in charge of getting us there. Now I'm not generally in charge of the group when it comes to following directions, because I am always lost. I get lost walking to class. I get lost walking home from parties. I got lost almost every day while I was abroad. Plus, I'd never been to this city before so I don't know 1. Why I was in charge 2. What made my friends let me be in charge or 3. How I did it. Because I did a good job, y'all. We got there so much earlier than we expected. Didn't get lost once! I was super focused. Long strides all the way there - hustling. It was probably the one time I didn't get lost in Korea.I was leading the group through the streets, looking as far ahead as possible and trying desperately to stay both alert and distracted when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, this old man turn around and watch us walk past. He was smoking, standing underneath a streetlight with his other adjussi buddies."Ah," I thought, "Never seen a group of foreigners before. Just keep walking. No big deal. Nothing to be nervous about." My heart pounded in my ears as I strode past the group, my friends behind me chatting and having a good time. Great, I thought, we did it! Unscathed! But then I hear -- I’ll never forget it -- the man say, in English, TO ME, "Sexy."And, like, okay. I mean, I guess it was fine? I mean, like, thanks, sir? I’m glad you found my polo shirt arousing. I'm trying to get to dinner.I don’t think I’m sexy. I was just minding my business. So it kinda threw me for a loop when this stranger felt the uncontrollable urge to inform me that he thought I was sexy. Just couldn’t help himself. He had to say something before this long, gay American was lost to the throngs of people and pulsing globalization forever. But, I mean, it’s fine. It was fine. Totally fine.I mean, I could've stopped and laid into him. I mean, really trounced this guy. I can speak with a coastal Korean accent, which would have blown this old man's mind. Not only that, but I've been practicing swearing in Korean for just this situation. Repeating swear words and “Fuck off” in the mirror to psych myself up. Before parties back home, I'd practice turning down drinks or imagine pushing a guy away when he tried to dance with me. I was prepared. You have to be! But I also had to get the squad to dinner, so I just ignored him and kept walking. But it was fine. I’m fine. It’s whatever.We got to the market, as I said, and we had a lot of fun! Sure, that guy was stuck in my head the whole time. Couldn’t quite get the thought of him out of my mind. The way he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, his eyes and how they watched me before he spoke, the way the lights of the street hit him and the road, the sound of people, traffic, and my heartbeat swirling around us. That word cutting through the air. You know, maybe he’ll never leave my head. Maybe he’s just taken up residence. Maybe every time I wear that shirt or those shorts or those shoes or that perfume I’ll remember him.But it’s not just him -- of course it’s not just him. It’s never just one guy who did one thing. It’s the men who sat a little too close to me on the bus. It’s the middle schoolers who ogled me on the train. It’s the guy who tried to pull drunk-little-me to his dorm on this campus. It’s the guy who insisted we keep going even when I made no effort to start on this campus. It's the president, assaulting young girls because he can. It's Picasso throwing young women away when he’s finished using them. It's people telling me that it's my fault because I was drinking or I was wearing clothes or I had long hair. It’s your fault, they say. Why were you so careless? You need to pay more attention. Look what you made me do! You are here to make me feel good. You are here for me. You can't have a problem with it. This is all you're good for!Maybe the way people look at me, approach me, touch me will leave me one day. I know I said I was oblivious, and I am, but how much of it is to cope? I only became oblivious after consciousness became too much to handle.But it’s fine! I’m fine! It was fine! I had fun while I was abroad. I always have fun! Boys are so cute and silly. They don't know any better. It’s fine. I’m totally fine. I mean, I barely even think about it anymore. I'm always so distracted and in my own little world. It's totally okay. Besides, other people have experienced much, much worse than I have. Or maybe they haven't! It's not like you can trust females anyway. It's probably
all a lie. It’s no big deal. Don't worry about it. It’s fine. Fine. Totally fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I promise, I’m totally fine.
Performed at Sewanee Monologues, 2020.
