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Ode to a Dead Racoon
written by: S.K. Clarke
O, your body fills me with such sadness,
Black claw raking the evening air,
Your face, nature’s clever mask,
Your eyes locked in dead stare.
If there’s divine providence in the fall of a sparrow,
And a mournful grace in the corpse of a deer,
There is no pity found in the woodland bandit,
Death’s perpetual tortoise behind the hare.
Are we free in death,
Or does our reputation precede?
Only the raccoon can tell,
What the afterlife can achieve.
Clarke is a writer of poetry, plays, and short stories focusing on the disintegration of small-town America, social and political injustices of minorities, coming-of-age and end-of-life narratives, and stories featuring complicated and strong female characters. She is currently writing her first novel which, she hopes, will touch on all of the aforementioned topics.