when one night, we heard
what sounded like a baby,
its cries sharpening outside.
Our neighbors had gathered
in the backyard and stared
high into one of the trees
where a young raccoon clung
to a branch bending slowly.
There were holes in the trunk
where its mother had nested,
and this one, no bigger than
your hand, it seemed, flashed
its eyes in fear when spotlight
ricocheted through leaves.
I think about this animal's
face, how it was taken away
from the tree boarded up
now, its mother long gone.
I take comfort in forgetting
the details and hold our son.
(c)Jon Pineda 2004
from Birthmark
Southern Illinois University Press
Carbondale, IL
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