Invasive Species

Maria Zoccola

i skinned a ripe peach to bait the shed, 
and when my loneliness came sniffing 
from its den, i slammed shut the trap. 
poor creature. all that sad noise, though
i’ll have you know i wasn’t cruel: i dripped 
the hose through the crack in the roof, 
lowered meals at dusk and dawn, fruit 
and christmas chocolate, hand-rolled 
dumplings from the spot on state street.
he quieted in a week, or perhaps 
his voice gave out, but for pacing he was 
inexhaustible. i parked my lawn chair
beneath the flickering mass of streetlights 
and listened to claws on the concrete floor,
up one side and down the other, whine
on every inhale. i suppose you could say
i’m a soft touch. hello, i whispered, 
through the crack in the roof. i see you. 
my loneliness liked that very much. oh, 
his sweet little face, split down the middle;
he could almost be smiling. (you’ll see 
my error soon enough.) i shinned down 
the wall and threw open the bolted door. 
at first he cowered, bless him, but soon 
he crept forth to snuffle at my wrist, 
and then, like a slipped blade, to bite. 

Maria Zoccola is a queer Southern writer with deep roots in the Mississippi Delta. She has writing degrees from Emory University and Falmouth University. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Ploughshares, Kenyon Review, The Iowa Review, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere.