Feral

One might have a hard time understanding me.

I

Lock eyes with distracted drivers

like a lynx

when crossing the street

slowing down my pace

- seething silent challenges -

yet I cry into popcorn buckets.

I dislike screaming babies but rage at the sight of dead ones on foreign shores.

Only for that trauma to be forgotten

Like all the others

Before lunch.

Once, I’d been domestic,

holding my knees to coo at monarchs landing on milkweed,

And when I cannot see the stars at night, some part of me misses them like

an absent mother.

Now?

I am raw at all times

Like a power line dangling

Is it live?

This wild thing – can it go ignored?