This Is What Survival Looks Like

In my dream of raccoons, they climbed up
the chimney throat, hands clutching divots
in the hot brick, the sour ivy, the long tail
of some dead possum, mewing a downy
echo: every dead thing is in need of more
mourning. They climbed and lumbered
out, one by one, little furry moon faces
shining like flashlights on the roof, rubbing
their capable hands, kindling for some
future held deep within. What if I had
climbed up there with them, my striped
tail a broom sweeping rage clean? What if
I too pawed at the ash clearing sky, holding
up the magnifying glass of our stories?