Karma

I shot the squirrels
as they jumped from the patio walls
jumped from the potting table
from the hose reel
onto my three-decked birdfeeder--
shot them like skeet.

And so
a tiny squirrel--
a squirrel that could pass
through a needle's eye--
leapt onto the tail
of my spine,
began to climb
vertebra by vertebra
up my skinny back.

Now and then I can feel
the scratching of its careful feet
now and then it shyly nips me
just to test its teeth.

I slap at it
and cannot hit it
I roll on my back
like a dog
and cannot crush it
I dance and carry on
and cannot shake it off.

It is climbing
to the place where
the feeder of the heart
hangs in the ribtree--
hangs very still
and wonders what this one
fathered by Ten Loud Bangs
whose mother's name is
Bloody Holes
has in store
for it.