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Literature
of carrides
There is a wolverine in my backyard
and he is terrible.
It's almost a Saturday,
almost scraping the spring
from our molars and canines.
You are predictable
and terrible.
My mother comes home
tells me the hawks are
the things to photograph
and cry over and then leaves
because I grieve better in silence
and this is terrible.
I grab five jade eggs from the nest
too close to the ground. I throw
the first one up,
watch it hit the pavement like
an orchestra with a dead family member
or yellow songbirds at midnight and then
place the other four in a basket,
place them in a pool of neon blue.
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