After many years in Berkeley, Judy Clarence now writes poetry from the foothills of the Sierras in Northern California where she lives with her daughter and grandchildren. A classical musician (violin, choral singing) she's a retired academic librarian. She doesn't drink soda, pop or Coke, but enjoys iced green tea.
TWO SKUNKS
JUDY CLARENCE
I can’t stop thinking:
Two dead skunks just
outside the culvert, noses
touching as if to breathe
each other’s last breaths.
I can’t stop wondering:
Why no blood? Too far off
the roadway to call
roadkill. Seems like someone
in my neighborhood abhors
skunks.
I can’t stop seeing them, curled
together, bodies full of poison
turning blood to gum, then rock.
I can’t stop not smelling
skunk—they had no time
in fleeing their safe space to spew
their scent in self-defense.
This is how we may all go,
writhing, embracing, noses
touching, centuries of toxins
curling our stiff bodies into closure.
I can’t stop wanting to survive.