Body Language

Down cellar a commotion—stomping steps,
canine nails clattering. The dog’s role: flush
a juvenile squirrel from the laundry room,
but the puppy, who bruised my wrist purple
lunging at prey on the leash, freezes. A gray blur
leaps from the clothes basket—I chase it toward
the bulkhead flung wide to the spring night.
It skitters past, scrawny and trapped against
a scuffed wall. Gesturing, I yell—go, go,
that way—as if the baby animal spoke
English. Our eyes meet—It’s OK, I won’t hurt
you—but wild intelligence trumps language
and he bolts, a cool shock of fur grazing
my ankle as I shriek aloud, for both of us.

Therese Gleason is author of two chapbooks: Matrilineal (Honorable Mention, 2022 Jean Pedrick Chapbook Prize, New England Poetry Club), and Libation (co-winner, 2006 South Carolina Poetry Initiative Competition, selected by Kwame Dawes). Her poems appear in 32 Poems, Indiana Review, New Ohio Review, Notre Dame Review, Rattle, and elsewhere. She is an adjunct instructor in creative writing at Clark University, and works as an ESL teacher in the Worcester Public Schools. Originally from Louisville, Kentucky she currently lives in central Massachusetts with her family. She has an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University, and is a poetry editor for The Worcester Review. Find her at theresegleason.com.

Published October 15 2023