Heather Saunders Estes

Blue Light Press nominated this poem for a Pushcart Award. Editors submit works by six authors each year to Pushcart. I consider even being a Pushcart-nominee an honor! “Border Skirmishes” is the poem that my Editor submitted. As the fragrant lemon blossoms turn into fruit and begin to ripen this winter, we begin the skirmishes again. My only hope is increased depredation by the Great Horned Owls. For the first time I heard three owls hooting at once where sometimes the trees have been quiet for years. My yard is sadly not open enough to allow in coyotes although they are frequently heard and often seen. Happy Holidays to you all! May our wishes for peace be granted.

Border Skirmishes

You perch at your ease in my garden,
balancing your soft rump on a frail branch,
long tail swinging or curled for support
like an English lady at tea, hand on her cane
as she leans over for a sugar cube.
You take a polite bite of lemon rind, savoring.
Ah, you say, last season’s Meyer. It was a good year.

Damn you rats for polluting my lemon tree,
strewing your hantavirus pellets, carelessly
leaving trails of disgust and disease.
I pay the water bills, fertilize monthly,
prune, pamper and swoon over the sweet scent.
My arms show the pruning scratches from citrus thorns.
And you, you ultimate freeloaders, rogues,
mooch, steal and vandalize.
I am defiled, invaded and defenseless
against your nighttime raids.
My teeth grind and my fists clench,

Ultimate insult — a cellar incursion and occupation.
My eyes fill with tears to see my daughter’s
boxed yet beloved stuffed animals
massacred, mutilated, urine soaked.
Rats have stolen sweet
reminiscences of my baby’s smiles,
talcum powder and night lullabies.
Now, I must trash the dead pink bunnies,
eyeless kittens and gnawed turtles.
If only the stuffed animal dragons,
wolves, panthers and orcas could fight back.
They would make quick snacks of you all.

Those careful holes nobbled in cardboard boxes
are entry doors to your warm nests.
You are smart, curious and playful,
like my daughter.
My jasmine vines on the stairs are a jungle gym
for your babies. No fruit, just fun.
I know you by your calling cards.

An unpleasant part of our urban creature family,
you disappear and return like a bad penny
when the weather turns and the fruit ripens.
Scrabbling, slinking your way inside
if I leave the garage door open by mistake
or a gap anywhere as small as a quarter.
I startle awake as air vents or walls creak
imagining paws and tails, fearing the worst.

I admit, I must honor and thank
your cousins in laboratories
who have saved human lives,
often at the cost of their own —
after being tortured, Frankensteined,
cloned and infected.

My niece kept two pet rats.
Cute when clean, coats like tiny Dalmatians,
scented of pine shavings,
they perched on my shoulder,
whiskers tickling my ear.

I’ll set that against your account,
but you still owe us for the Black Death.