So a Raccoon Had Babies in Your Attic

Squeak squeak

Hello, beloveds. Poet Jesus here. Spring has exploded in my holy ghostwriter Tania’s home in the midwest, and as a springaholic, she’s drinking it in like tulip whiskey. Back in March, she got a sneak peak of the season when she traveled south to Nashville. Let’s just say her Airbnb suddenly broke into song one night, and it wasn’t the Grand Ole Opry.

Love and peace, all creatures here below. You can make your nest in my heart any time.

Hey there, sweet peas. Photo by Christian Lanctot at Pixabay

It starts with footsteps so heavy
you think Tevye's dancing
on the roof. Then the scurrying, 
gnawing, and apparent rearranging 
of two by fours in the middle 
of the night when genius strikes.

And the next day, child, like rising 
champagne bubbles come the squeaks, 
the pink chittering arrogance of life 
keeping you wide-eyed in bed 
picturing the cirrocumulus 
of chewed insulation drifting above 
the ceiling—but also the miracle
of wobbling fuzzdrops rooting 
for survival, the black cotyledons 
of their ears unfolding, milk washing 
past fluttering tongues.

Do you call the trapper?
Do you pop open the hatch and reach in? 
Or do you just let them
grow and scamper through your walls
because, in the end, will it even
matter, you and all creatures
of me and king softening into the earth?

Don't you know, my dear masked ones 
scratching and chomping
through the architecture of my heart, 
that these are the decisions
I make every day, that my misery
and delight overflow the rafters
where you make your riotous nest?