It looks soft                 nosing through the clover
and I’m happy to have it here

or if not happy                                             unbothered

but soon my hostas go jagged                                             begonias bit
to the quick

one day I hear a scramble

and the thing’s at the door

face smashed to the glass like it wants

what’s in here

and I can see its fur is not soft

at all

so I point my husband to the air rifle

to the upstairs bathroom window             and I am
insistent                                           though not without guilt

or if not guilt                           sadness

or if not sadness

resignation—

breathing soft sighs

at the way things must be.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 3.

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