The Skunk

Its sourness seemed part of morning, like the mist
concealing the houses, the Ozarks lost
almost wholly in the fog’s ghost.

At first, I wasn’t bothered by the smell,
but then I saw him by the road, small
and dead.
     His musk, meant to repel,

had become a shroud against the cold.
I missed him terribly—once wild,
alive, and full of being in the world—

now only absence tugging a thick rope
inside my veins; I felt it scrape
along the body’s tunnels, then rip

where it caught in an artery.
           It was nearly
too much to pull over. It was dim. It was early.

Report, Arkansas

Click beetle. Wheel bug. Cranefly. Tachinid.
Great golden digger. Syrphid. Cabbage looper.
Snowberry clearwing. Soil centipede.
Carpenter ant. Spur-throated grasshopper.
Mud dauber. Silverfish. Black swallowtail.
Red saddlebags. Assassin. Harlequin.
Honeybee. Squash vine borer. Cocklebur weevil.
Field cricket. Lacewing. Striped bark scorpion.
Red paper wasp. Ash sphinx. Azure bluet.
Spotted cucumber beetle. Brown recluse.
Marbled orb weaver. Goldenrod hooded owlet.
Fiery skipper. Badwing. Praying mantis.
Let it be writ of these and more today
in the garden. 2020, the 10th of July.

Josh Luckenbach's recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Nimrod, Birmingham Poetry Review, New Ohio Review, Nashville Review, and elsewhere. He received an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Arkansas and a BA from the University of Virginia. He lives in West Texas where, in addition to pursuing his PhD, he serves as Managing Editor for Iron Horse Literary Review.

Published April 15 2023