The gray squirrel’s tail shimmies.
Wind rushes the bamboo. So the like-
minded sing to one another,
and are thrilled. I’m no exception,
just outcast and forced into a love
affair with disagreement. I remember
huge toys and all around me,
the scent of too much Chanel,
the sharp edges of sequins,
the thickness of red lipstick,
then white-gray chinchilla fur.
In the bath, I felt skinned, too.
The adopters said my first word
was outside. No surprise.
Squirrels chirred at me from the maples
to say they’d been robbing dens,
knocking down roses, starting fights,
stealing mother’s trinkets.