after Muriel Rukeyser
Because two years ago,
another chipmunk ate all our birdseed;
because that same chipmunk
ate all sixty of my sunflower sprouts—
munched the entire row to the ground;
because that same chipmunk
devoured every bright-faced pansy;
because some part of me believes
that what I have planted should grow
for my pleasure and not for yours;
for this, I have decided to despise you,
little chipmunk that took up residency
last week beneath my porch.
I see you dart across the boards,
cheeks full of something,
then empty-cheeked running the other way.
You leap up onto my window sash to watch me
in my rooms. You scurry into the shadows.
Scowling, I point you out to my daughter.
She says, Oh, how cute! I think, Cute?
What? Little vermin isn’t cute.
Except you are. Except your soft, pocket-sized body
and small rounded ears are the actual definition
of cute. Except when I watch you stand straight-spined
on your back legs, front paws held at your chest
as if in prayer, little St. Chipmunk, I soften.
Except when I see your cheeks bulging
five times their normal size stuffed with seeds,
I laugh out loud. In my eagerness to revile you,
I had let myself not see you. I wasn’t interested
in your survival, your story. I wanted only to erase,
to other. To see you beyond what I expect to see
is the sort of transformation that could not have happened
if I were alone. Generosity is how we save each other.
How long would I have gone on in my clenching?
The taste of conceit is bitter.
I had filled my cheeks with it. How sweet it is now,
added to the mix, the taste of curiosity.