Squirrel In the Yard Ii

the squirrel in the yard has seen me
give up my worms to the dirt
only to feed the birds, and in turn
hear the chirps of more nightingales
the sickening chirps of january, 
the monotonous wails of january

on the fence, the straggled hair
still holds onto barbed wire
and sets off the alarm each morning
for my forest tent caterpillar
awaiting an older ant from its colony,
to its home
crawling across broken shards of 
my cognitive window
before it wasn’t cocooned,
but instead glass-blown into
incognito

but I can only trudge tiredly to my window 
and watch through, not lace, but black-out curtains
the crowns of thorns on all the gods
that walk up to my porch,
step on tomatoes, and eat my leaves
without reading their veins,
claiming they know the trees—
but never knew they’re poison

not unlike the jars of jam in a wicker basket
fermented in that Wiccan casket
from 2004
that still float up and down
my backyard stream, under my bridge
that hasn’t been repaired
only an engraved scratch
only an entombed epitaph

the squirrel in the yard 
has hidden his acorns in me
through the one-way window
only he can see
my remaining worms will curl around them
holding onto something foreign
and the squirrel,
with his empty eyes,
will never eat again

Copyright © Ashlea Senft | Year Posted 2018

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