I prefer always, always, a poor tragically human human
to a wealthy tragically human human for what I consider
obvious reasons. And so, the blue-collar county I call home
hurts my heart with its needless massacre — the poisoned
skunks lying about, the trash bin full of target practice bunnies,
the dressed deer strung up like Christmas and most recently,
the McDonalds bag yelping roadside — I watched my neighbor
scurry out the house and toss the bag onto piled yard waste.
I cannot help from doubling over with panic at the demise, not
because of the death but because of the no-death — when
the skunk is still frothing at its obsidian little lips, when valley
wind dumps the trash bin and a bunny escapes, dragging, dragging,
and so, I asked Santa for a hatchet — sensible and head-heavy —
to take care of business myself. I practiced on roots, produce,
rotisserie chickens. I watched zombie movies — always kill
the head — and murder movies and G.I Jane — I never saw
a wild thing sorry for itself — and after the neighbor shut her
door I ran to the bag, my hatchet at the ready, gripped cautiously
like a child’s hand while street crossing and when I opened
the trashed bag there was nothing inside but blood, blood.
