the squirrel skull sonnet

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