by A.D. Harper

The wildlife that comes to my house at night is unknown to the books. Maybe
I have the wrong books. Maybe all nature books are a lie. Maybe the creatures
do not exist and someone is slipping me hallucinogens in my tea but who?
Maybe my sight which is getting worse is playing tricksy games and what I
think is a long striped tail attached to a hybrid of a fox and a badger and a cat
is actually a piece of cable. I don’t know. I would phone the police but it’s not
an emergency, it’s just irksome: I used to think wildlife guides were complete
but here are the apocryphal in all their surefooted glory. It’s not a matter of
darkness, the security lights switch on when they are near. And the webcam
picks them up. I’ve asked the neighbours but they shake their heads and look
away, which is concerning. I’m worried these animals are part of a cult and I
am going to be their victim. Or, more happily, their king. I will proclaim
to them, the unhallowed ones, the off-the-books, the secrets on the lawn.
I’ll tell them our sideways logics will prevail, they have inherited the moon.

A.D. Harper’s poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Rhino, The Shore, and Rattle, among others. He lives in England and can be found online at adharper.com and on Bluesky as adharper.bsky.social‬.