[Here’s the next poem from our Poetic Mystery Guest, B.N. Please do enjoy!]
The Squirrel
For a week
a squirrel has been
trapped in the attic. He moves
on weak hind legs like a voice
between the walls
and the beams. I find his
hairs caught by the places
he thought: escape.
In the bedroom we rise
and fall
to each other
like small gusts of wind
slamming doors. This way
we suggest passions
the way the mirror imitates
companionship. The reflection
of the flower in the flower
that opens onto the flower, the
yellow center.
We should be required to live once
Like the animals full of animal hours
And that strange craftiness—
Always the will to live.
By now the squirrel
is home or an afterthought.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2009
This poem previously appeared in the Memphis State Review