Donika Kelly
This time I won’t say, little kangaroo
because this kangaroo is swole as fuck.
Chest thicker than my father’s,
bicep resting on the mastiff’s skull,
forearm cradling the carotid, the jugular.
A tense tableau to be sure.
Whatever might have happened between them
is unknown, interrupted by the man
eating the distance in panic and deliberation
to square up and stun the kangaroo with his temerity.
I lied.
Sweet friend, little kangaroo, thank you
for showing me how to shake my head
against the blow I saw coming.
