Skull of squirrel, shorn bare, bloodless. Pale bone
against concrete steps. An offering? Hex?
I move the fragile skull to porch. Atone.
I cast other things aside, but won’t vex
the soul—animal or human—who left
this as totem or taboo. Thus I learn,
inspecting sharp fang, the delicate heft,
barely there. Yet I can clearly discern
the what-was: cracked nutshells, two frightened eyes.
The girls want no part of this ghost. One glance,
and they flee inside. I bid you to rise,
rejoin your body, bite, show me the dance
that led you here as omen—or null set.
I never meant you harm, my dear, my pet.
for HB
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
This is just lovely. ( and I can’t help it, I have to say that you can send the skull to me if you need to get rid of it in a kindly way… I have some others to keep it company )
What a lovely thing to scribe after such a gruesome discovery. All I would be able to muster is “IEEEEEEEEE!”
if i let you bake muffins for me and write you haiku about the bull skull (Senor Jorge) that lives on our porch, can i be yer husband?
(ahem)
jorge, yer presence,
calcified and so toothy,
makes my mom cranky.
i like lemon poppy seed.
Last fall, the kids and I happened upon a dead squirrel in the park and watched it decompose over the months before winter. This spring, my youngest remembered it still and we went back to the spot to find it completely gone. I remember the looks of utter reverence in the kids’ eyes.