There once lived a family of rats, caught up in wires and tubes and they probably thought they had it good until

the car started.

That car’s air conditioning smelled like death stench for weeks, until we

got it looked at.

Who knew we killed a family, who knew they ate their way under the hood,

who knew we killed a family and they reminded us of it for weeks.

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My mother and father killed my dog, barely big enough to not be called a puppy anymore,

they ran over her,

as she slumbered in the tall weeds and grasses of a field.

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We had a chicken named Thumper, his body grew big but his head never did,

and he teetered and tottered on ballerina pointed feet, and

the other roosters wanted to

eat him alive.

When we sacrificied him,

my parents plucked his back,

and they saw that his skin was a green-purple secret,

hidden by a humpback and so

many feathers.

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Our third horse got caught in the river.

Big Mama got caught in Little River.

I guess it’s not surprising when big things die when they get caught in little things.

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The coyotes got the rest of the chickens.

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The rattlesnakes almost got the rest of the horses.

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Most people don’t know that farm-fresh eggs are covered in blood.

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We had two of the largest, ugliest geese.

They flew away.

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The cat died under the hot tub,

we couldn’t find her for days.

——

The forest is always a graveyard,

is always hallowed ground,

is where we buried the animals.

Then they built a subdivision.