Appraising as if only
for insurance purposes
some keening squirrel, my sight
hound
guarantees the regular abandonment
of tumorous and gnawed-green
Osage-oranges,
eaten out at the foot
of this or that Himalayan White
Pine.
Colleen at spin class says to kill
the small green orange eaters “will cost
you two hundred fifty bucks
a pop” in fines. Her husband, Friend
of Fort Greene Park, is
quarantined in Amagansett
through the long weekend. It’s important
to ensure local eco-
perpetuity; it’s impossible
to outrun the keenness of
my hound. Her career
assessment spreads athletically
and undiscerning over
every local incident
of flesh-that-burrows under
twenty or so ounces.
These furry pollinators, she observes,
whose collective estates
must hold
environmental significance, and whose
contraband selves and celebratory
downed fruit spell liability
for esurient arrivals even when
she comes reliably
on lead.
Louise Akers is a poet and scholar living in Brooklyn, NY. She is the author of two books of poetry, Alien Year (Oversound, 2020) and Elizabeth/The story of Drone (Propeller Books, 2022). Akers is currently pursuing her PhD in English and American Literature at NYU.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
