print previewback TALVIKKI ANSEL
Somewhere in Space
[They know . . . ]
They know their terrain, their paths,
materialize for food, for sun
slip into the broken panel of the cold frame
to sleep on the lettuce and beet shoots,
wary, they eye the trap, cornered
twist and dash, eddy of tight muscles,
eyes dilate. What am I, setting traps?—
someone hates them, someone tolerates them
someone wants to tame them.
Their route through the back field
of chickory and goldfinches, woodpile
to porch steps and the prickly gooseberry
where they rub their faces.
Over the back wall and gone,
feral orbits scrutinized.
They can’t be relocated they know
the wren in its frenzy on the fence,
dog who does not chase.