A raccoon, gray tail still intact, head askew across the highway
Left to decompose on the county road, under spring’s thawing sun.
A sadness swells my throat, a differing of points of view
Where wild used to be, the raccoon mistakes concrete for dirt
Headlights for predator eyes, glowing in the complete night
Crushed undertire, underfoot, underpaw—
Sweep his carcass off that once-grass gravel
The fields of wildflowers and sideoats grama
Given way to industrialism, to a streak of urbanization
So far out in the sticks that even the animals do not know
Where the country ends and the city now begins.

i wait for you on my crumbling precipice
and no, roaring waves heed not my call below
slow, i retrace my steps away from the  edge
but oh the ledge, its comfort calls
i wait for you, my dear, my love
to part the crowded sea, to relieve me
of the gray flag i hold that i wish to relinquish
this is not what i want, but who i am might be incongruent
with the life i imagined, golden sun and rain abhorrent

that big ugly thing stomps its feet
rears its head and shows bared teeth
that big ugly thing roars an echo
flares it nose and gores me beneath
the cracking sky of a barebone youth
the laughing demons of jeers uncouth
that big ugly thing won’t leave me alone
that big ugly thing is at hand, and here, i stand
i’ve got a stick, and they’ve got ivory tusks
and fangs and venom and a rage inside that poisons my kindness, my patience, my virtue
and still i hold my stick high, open my eyes, and keep getting up
no matter the horn that pierces nor the bones that shatter
no matter the claws that catch nor the ribs that scatter
no matter the teeth that tear nor the blood that spatters

i mean, it’s not like i’m going to let them win
i’m a pretty sore loser

i take a pill every night
small round pink
tastes like skunk
if i can’t swallow it quick
the pill keeps me sane
releases me from my own hook
i am a shell without it
corroded by years of hardship
that pill saved my life
it’s the shoulder i lean on
my new sword in the stone
and never does it break
because it is i who wield it
and i have control
i command an army now
i am not just a soldier

traumatic depression
that’s what it is
woven from screaming
behind closed doors
that gradually turned into fights
at the dinner table
threats of physical violence
rushing in like a flood
during a rainstorm
it always left me feeling hollow
sad
scared
hopeless
well, what’s a family without a few scars?

little children will crawl into bed
with their parents at the time of night
when even graveyards are not awake
the last time i did that
i tried to curl against my mother
i tried to hug her
and she brushed me off
told me to stop squirming
i tried my dad
he just grunted and turned away
furling around himself
impenetrable as a coconut
i got up
and went back to my bed
now cold and lonely
at the time of night
when even dreams
offer you no comfort