The Palace of Bones

The Squirrel

The Squirrel Each time I come across you When the earth is most fresh and bare, And the living seem to never end, You dash across the windowsills Of my life with your fat, gold fingers And your legs full of fire. I can tell you have lived a long time By the terrible way you look at me, cursed As a dog that smells and hears everything. I follow you carefully with handfuls of nuts, Spilling them like rain over your footprints. You turn to look, but refuse to take What I want to give you. Maybe I’m not what you wanted. Maybe I shouldn’t be living here. In the weeks that pass, I gather pieces of your life Like dead, green leaves. As the hair sheds from your brittle head Prematurely as these ghostly leaves, You must think of what shows on my face— 67 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. The incongruities, the fear Of my decisions finally crumbling. You think of me, And the invisible webs In every corner of this house. Though I know you want to Carry me like a basket of nuts, Up to your iridescent trees, You do not have the strength or the arms. 68 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...