It’s the Damn Hands
by Ann Sabin
On Monday night, the raccoons got into the chicken coop.
They left all the heads on our lawn like a spilled piñata.
I’ve heard they use the feet as chew toys and combs.
By Thursday, they were back for more.
In what I can only imagine was a joint effort, they choked out a pig.
We fed her to the other pigs. God, they love it.
They grunt like it’s sex.
I’m making the new chickens little suits of armor.
When sanding them down, I got covered in copper dust.
By evening, I reeked of metal. My wife said it was like kissing a Civil War statue.
I awoke to a raccoon prying my eyes open and another filling my mouth with grass.