The animals who take turns
living under my porch are like
women used to be when I was

young, they need to find shelter
even though it may be dark thick
heavy with leftover air, used up

deep-down they know, they know
there should be more, so they
flee when they hear steel-toed

marching-order boots above,
they run out through the smallest hole

like the toddler sized raccoon I saw
today emerging fast rushing

bigger than any I’ve ever seen
she must have been growing
growing when no one was looking

I watched her fly up the closest tree
wrap herself around her sturdiness

stick her neck out to look at me
show me her over-loaded splendid head

full of tales from our sisterhood

Susan Shea was raised in NYC, and now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania. In the past year, she made the full-time transition from school psychologist to poet. In that time, over one hundred of her poems have been accepted for publication by places that include: Invisible City, Ekstasis, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Amethyst Review, October Hill Magazine, Lit Break Magazine, New English Review, Foreshadow, Umbrella Factory, and others.