New Neighbors
First day in the house, and the mice are confused
their routines established by the previous family living here
suddenly disrupted. There are rooms that were safe
and almost always empty
that are now full of new furniture and footsteps
the scent and stalk of a cat
excited at the prospect of new territory to mark and own.
First night in the new house and we can hear the mice
tumbling through the rafters and walls
squeaking in dismay at emerging into rooms unexpectedly full of people
a fire burning in the fireplace, someone making themselves food
in the middle of the night, in a kitchen that belonged to them
every night after 9 pm.
Drive
We drove out of town in my dad’s old pickup truck
so full of baggage I didn’t think we’d make it out of town.
None of it made sense but it was so cool and exciting
so stupid in retrospect.
There was a whole weekend
in a hotel room about 15 stories up
with an open window with no screen
so much alcohol I thought I was going to die.
I didn’t even have my license, barely knew how to drive
just a few backstreet lessons practicing with the shift and the clutch
in that old truck with no power steering and shocks shot to shit
somehow got that truck back on the freeway in the middle of the night
pointed it down the road back home
teenagers all think they’re going to live forever.
Pulled into the driveway around one in the morning
parked the truck about fifty times until I thought it looked right
turned the lights off just in time
to see my dad standing in the doorway, arms crossed,
so much rage and terror and relief on his face
there was really nothing we could say about the whole thing.
When the Nights Grow
The air grows colder and the sky grow clearer and finally
we can see stars again from our back porch, huddled in our coats, hands in our pockets
watching our breath pool and hover in the air. The world grows so quiet
after the first hard freeze, as if all of the little birds and squirrels
all of the creatures that rustle invisible through the trees and bushes all summer
have been frozen as stiff as the blades of silvery grass crunching under our feet.
A few more snowfalls and I don’t know where I am anymore, all of my landmarks
have been obliterated and replaced with brand new ones. It’s so easy to get turned around
driving to the store, to work, to my parents’ house out in the country
to check on them and make sure they have enough food, that the heater works
that they’ve filled their prescriptions in time for the cold. Their dog
might make it through one more winter, they might, too.
My daughter texts me to tell me she’s going out with friends after school
and I tell her she can’t because it’s going to be too cold once the sun goes down
for her to stand on a bus stop waiting for her ride home. I tell her
I can’t drive in the snow, on all this hard-packed ice
and she swears at me and I spend the rest of the day worrying she won’t come home at all.
When she does come home, on time, after school, her cheeks are red and splotchy
and as angry as she is with me, she takes the cup of hot chocolate I’ve made her
just like I did when she was little and happy, asks for more marshmallows
before stomping off to her room and shutting the door between us.
Hope
The world is burning, I tell the fat, green caterpillar
as it ambles up the side of my garage. It stops for a moment,
turns its head toward me
as if deciding to listen to me for a moment. It’s true, I say
It’s all on fire. I’m so sorry, but we really fucked things up this time.
I hold a bit of birch leaf out for it, but all it wants to do is climb.
The next morning, I find a thick, white cocoon
where the lunar moth has spun itself a safe place to pupate.
I don’t know if we’ll be around long enough for this, I warn the sleeping moth
this hopeful little creature
that still dreams of growing wings and fluttering away.
The Woodchuck
The little woodchuck bounces down the alley
dives into the hedges that hide my back yard.
I take two, three steps after it,
draw close enough to look over the short hedge
but the little creature is gone, transported via woodland magic
or just into some burrow it’s dug that I haven’t yet discovered.
Later, the same woodchuck, or perhaps another one
trundles past my office window, its short, stubby legs
moving it along more efficiently than one would think possible.
It takes several attempts before it can climb out of the deep window well
pulling itself up onto and over the ledge with its small black hands
but it’s somehow still too fast for me to get my camera out in time.
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