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          the day I waxed

was the first day                  of spring.

my fur had grown in

 

          thick: intricate.

I considered                leaving it and

staying in my cave

 

          but no, I thought

I need to                  emerge

someday,

 

          as pre-pubescent

as the pretty ones                    that all the

bad boys pick.

 

I’m brave, I can take it:

 

          the burn & the drip & the rub &

stench of scorched oil               & oranges—

and then the rip.

 

          at the end of that first long

sun-dripped                summer of

sangria-dregs & scratching

 

          itches, I had an inkling that

the adaptation              to humanity

isn’t all it was

 

          cracked up to be.

yes, the offending pelt              is history—

but so is

 

the rest of me.

coming of age by Kerry Rawlinson | Poetry Fabric Box

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