PoetryAloud

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Anne Graue Reads

The Armadillos

he didn't see it coming, shouted
something unutterable with the shots,
then four of the five were dead,
left bleeding at the corner of her house.

"They're pests," the deputy said,
"and they're too far north--these critters
come up from Texas and will ruin
the foundation of your house, ma'am."

She thought he might have brought a trap
like she remembered he did for raccoons,
skunks, and groundhogs; Armadillo blood
splashed unexpected upon the verdant grass.

Her daughter took pictures
once she'd called the sheriff;
these were strange, primordial
creatures she'd only seen on TV.

They were sinister too, in armor,
prehistoric in their gunmetal scales
and taupe leather for skin. They were
digging for grubs next to the holly bush

between the hydrangeas and jonquils,
oblivious to the chrome on the car,
the man pulling up in the drive,
cutting the engine,

standing on the porch, drinking
iced tea, talking, laughing.

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