Poetry Corner

Animal, Twice

The hedgehog is a real fortress: exteriority.

But, she a is deceptively indolent thing: interiority.

Throughout the days’ peregrinations, I think

that I too am a spiny, deceptive little Erinaceomorpha,

a turgid yet torpid thing.

I am interior and exterior,

a mind and some legs with straggly knees,

an expansive spirit with wiry hair and split-open-almond eyes,

a glance that frightens and wins,

and sex appeal that’s incongruous.

I am not like the moon rats, coarse, yet elusive:

see-through-able.

I am Cartesian dualistic: Chordata, Animalia

I am not hair, I am not removable,

I am a real fortress: rods, pipes, branches.

Some say the elegant are wanderers:

in foreign lands, backyards, green grasses.

But what they don’t know is we are also secret-keepers;

that’s why we’ve sprouted spines,

flanks, impervious quills.

We keep our honesty in our backbones.

We are animal exterior and animal soul,

a ravenous fortress of unyielding spires.

I am an inscrutable species of animal,

eyes shaded with pricks and dip-died rods,

a hider and a seeker, a little animal with a large umbra.

But inside:

Elegance abounds,

surging from nerve to nerve.

I am lit with breath and genius, an indelible

craft, knowledge, an unsatisfied right brain.

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