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:
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.
surging from nerve to nerve.
I am lit with breath and genius, an indelible
craft, knowledge, an unsatisfied right brain.