JULIE SUK
BATS
Bats have a way with the dark,
by day bedding down
between the ventilator slats
of the attic.
I nail a screen
behind the window
and jet-hose them to leave.
Within a week they’re back
as if no harassment
could route them elsewhere.
They have the hang
of eluding obstacles,
describe flittery patterns
as they feed in flight.
To us, a mimicry
but to insects
an inferno of shrieks,
like the sufferings of those
we choose not to hear.
Such cunning faces—
what harm should one expect
from furry pupas
folded in a casemate of wings?
See, my neck is unblemished.
But what damage,
what pain, even slight,
do I inflict
on the days I enter
with bared teeth?
