In this beautifully crafted collection of poems, Karen Kilcup writes about how

isolation due to covid brought nature to our doors, examining human kindness
and cruelty as it encroaches. In “Squunck” the skunk observes us as well. “I live
/ in open air, uncontained / by the doors like coffin lids / that suffocate you inside
/your fancy boxes.” Kilcup also laments isolation. In “On Not Being Touched”
she writes, “I envy the river rocks / for the water curling over / their backs.” In
“Belgian Mare and Foal” Kilcup celebrates a birth: “A flurry of legs / the pour of
a creamy tail, / the flash of a russet back. / The mare observes, and nods.” I am
enamored of Karen Kilcup’s work and am honored to have had the chance to
publish two of the poems from this collection. —Lee (Lori) Desrosiers, author of
The Philosopher’s Daughter, Sometimes I Hear the Clock Speak, and Keeping
Planes in the Air, and editor of Naugatuck River Review and Wordpeace

All too often we humans are guilty of a “habit / of not seeing what’s there,” as
Karen Kilcup claims in her poem “The Sixth Cat.” But in these poems, she pays
attention. Red Appetite is filled with close looks at the myriad of creatures that
share our planet, from the tiny water striders that “cannot see / the quick shadow
/ that glides beneath / the river’s lucent skin, / the gulf that lies / below” to the
bobcat, the “graceful spotted ghost,” that “leaves behind a chill that never /
eases.” From a deep observation of the small lives we often glimpse in our wild
and more-domesticated spaces, these poems deftly straddle a first-time
gardener’s fierce frustration with the wild pillagers that seek the same bitter
greens in spring as we do, and the often humorous empathy for those small lives
we too often overlook.
—Katherine Solomon, author of Tempting Fate

Red Appetite is a taxonomy of the joy and quirks of animals that live around us,
haunted all the while by death and the COVID lockdown. In these tight, lyrical
poems, mortality hunts the speaker like the bobcat that stalks the barnyard and
the woodchuck that undermines the garden. These poems echo Maxine Kumin’s
ethical introspection while others hint at the starkness of Robinson Jeffers’
animal poems. The music here allows the reader a taste of the sublime in the
midst of a world that is always falling and rising:
The neighbor’s ornamental cherry tree / sags with blooms. Too soon, /
they’ll wash the dark ground / with pink, soft underfoot, as if / someone
holding her breath / exhaled.
Red Appetite is a focused meditation on how we are reflected in these animals,
both domesticated like the barnyard cat or mare, and more wild like the possum,
junco, and bobcat. Kilcup’s collection is a nuanced read that leads one to rejoice
in spring and reflect that new life is due only to the coldness brought by winter.
—Gregory Byrd, author of The Name for the God Who Speaks, winner of the
2018 Robert Phillips Prize
ISBN 9781937347796
51200 > Red Appetite
Evening Street Press
Poems by Karen Kilcup
9 781937 347796
Evening Street Press
 Red Appetite

Karen Kilcup

Winner of the 2022 Helen Kay

Chapbook Contest

Evening Street Press

Oakland, CA
 Evening Street Press

Oakland, CA

Red Appetite
Karen Kilcup
Copyright 2023 by Evening Street Press.
All rights revert to the author on publication.

Cover: R.P. Thrall, Minnie From the Outskirts of Village, 1876.

Oil on canvas, 26 7/8 x 21 7/8 in. Collection of
Shelburne Museum, museum purchase. 1960-233. Photography
by Andy Duback.

ISBN: 978-1-937347-79-6

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

Evening Street Press

415 Lagunitas, Ave #306
Oakland, CA 94610
www.eveningstreetpress.com
For the animals
Red Appetite

CONTENTS

First Garden, Woodchuck, Woman 7

Backyard Hawk 8
Only Feathers 9
Ode to Fred 10
Runt 11
The Sixth Cat 12
Skunk 13
Woodchuck 14
Opossum 15
Coyote 16
Bobcat 17
Muskrat 18
Belgian Mare and Foal 19
First Frost 20
Autumn Rain, New Hampshire Woods 21
Juncos in Snow 22
Night Ride in Early Snow 23
Night Mare 24
Barn Fire 25
New Hampshire, Mid-March 26
Coronavirus Pastoral 27
The Morning News 28
Bad for You 29
The Lee Bear 30
Gallus gallus domesticus 31
Anthropocene Blues 32
Returning 33
Ides of March, 2021 34
Corporeal Diptych 35
Skaters 36
Squunck 37
Opassum 38
Ockqutchaun 39

Acknowledgments 40
 First Garden, Woodchuck, Woman

No fruit this fall—

the apple tree’s too young.
Plump as a matron, she savors grass
in the back yard, facing away
from me and the garden,
though we know she’s browsed nearby,
topping volunteer violets and dill
that grow outside the fence.
We’ve tried to lure her
to the Havahart with fruit—
ripe cantaloupe, sliced apples—
but the newly planted leafy greens—
kale, collards, butter lettuce—
are what she craves, just like us,
after a long winter hibernation.
My husband says he’s seen her chucklings,
or someone’s, nibbling in the sun,
but I think her time hasn’t come.

The rifle feels heavy

in my unpracticed hands,
and the scope battery’s dead,
so I have to use the iron sights.
She’s bolted more than once
when I appear around the corner,
so I need stealth, and luck, as I crouch
behind the lilac, and gently
pull the trigger.

I’m a long way away.

The bullet’s thunk surprises me,
as she rolls on her back and kicks
like a baby before she rolls again
and shuffles quickly toward the woods.
The .22’s no match. I have to
shoot again, moving closer,
and again. I meet her eyes,
already clouding.
Temptation’s bitter fruit.
What did the first woman do, disarmed
in her new garden?

7
Backyard Hawk
North Carolina, late March

It’s almost April, but a pane-framed blizzard

snags my glance: white down drifting
in a circle on the ground, and in the storm’s eye,
a hawk plucks prey, lofting
fluff away from a small plump form.
Perhaps a heart still pumping.
A transplanted Yankee,
I’m still learning the names
of Southern flowers, shrubs, trees
that fill my backyard garden:
barbed leatherleaf mahonia, that bears
perfumed pendants, tiny yellow flowers
and cloudy blue berries robins love;
nandina, heavenly bamboo, that boasts
red berries no bird should ever eat;
aucuba, gold-spattered leaves
holding forth all winter; camellias,
frilly flowers candy-cane red and white,
or rose-petal pink like a little girl’s bedroom.
The experts say they all should be avoided—
they’re nonnatives, intruders.
Crocuses shout yellow and blue,
daffodils blaze, the hellebores that opened
in January snow soldier on.
The neighbor’s ornamental cherry tree
sags with blooms. Too soon,
they’ll wash the dark ground
with pink, soft underfoot, as if
someone holding her breath
exhaled.
I go outside for a closer look. Step softly around
the house. The hawk pauses as I take each stride,
but not long.
When I’m ten feet away, he stops me
with a yellow stare. Then plucks faster.
The feathers float up, down, up, down,
then he’s done.
I force myself to watch
the plunge, that curved beak in
the soft breast. The first blood.
8
 Only Feathers

Our cat
favors fowl—
we call her Birdie
for a reason; four-footed
creatures need fear
not, but every
summer season
she stalks the things
with wings, loving
slaughter of swallow
as her red appetite
takes flight.

9
Ode to Fred

Champion chipmunk-catcher,
lovely foot-licker (no matter how ticklish
the subject)—you quickened each day
you brought bone and fur under quince.

Yesterday, I found you in the bulk freezer

next to the turkey we couldn’t finish
at Thanksgiving. Cat-prince, I forgot
we couldn’t bear to bury you yet.

How to remember
all you taught?
All I can say is,
you chased the sun,
you had no fear,
you loved
my queer mother.

10
Runt

Slender spotted cat,

Dot, what got you—
a neighbor’s poisoned mouse,
heartworm, cancer?
Lovely scarred survivor,
your half-cracked mother
attacked you endlessly.
Some say that’s what they do
to weaklings.

But no mouse matched

your sharpened wit
demanding nightly play,
a deadly exclamation
on the laser’s lurid point.

The vet says rabies

and the state lab insists on tests,
sentences your body to fire,
an undiagnosed, subjunctive demise.
Your ashes return
in a brown cardboard box
the Post Office labels
Special Delivery.
I’ve told them all
you’re much too smart
to mess with crazies,
a reeling chipmunk,
too-friendly skunk,
your mother.
Period.

11
The Sixth Cat

Shouldered in beside
the other black-and-whites
he nibbles their kibble
and gulps their mash
like any other feline,
but his tail is plush.

With too little coffee,

she can’t even count
but somehow feels
she has too many cats,
and one seems wider
than the rest, and strangely
striped. She looks
again. Then carefully
retreats.

Unlike most skunks,

he’s awake in the day,
he’s not a loner,
seems to like cat company.
The rest ignore him.
He never stinks.

He’s there every morning,

lies on the stone step
and waits for her
to call the others.
He’s mild and clean
as a May morning
and always keeps
his tail down.

She thinks about her habit

of not seeing what’s there.
She names him
Oscar, and misses him
when he’s gone.

12
Skunk
(from the New England Algonquian, “squunck,” “to urinate” +
“fox”)

Alluring as a kitten,
her perfume like a gun,
she’s the painted lady
strolling on the margins
of every rural town
on every summer evening.
Well-endowed, addicted
to browsing, she feeds
wherever she pleases.
Though she has no class,
attired in classic black
and white, she always
makes a statement.
Her tail’s the ostrich
plume no lady would wear,
a trigger, a flag
from no known country.
No one ever asks
for her opinion,
and she doesn’t care.
She’s the citizen
of another stripe,
the dirty secret we admit
only when we must.
Happy voyeurs, we see
our problem is not
to be enticed,
not to come
when she calls.

13
Woodchuck
(from the Northeastern Algonquian, ockqutchaun; also from the Narragansett,
wuchak, wejack)

Climatological prognosticator
and avuncular vegetarian,
he chooses pacifism until he’s
cornered. Conservative,
plump, toothy, he hunkers
at roadsides, snagging
his meals where and when
he can. He’ll never be anyone’s choice
for state animal.
His thoughtful opinions
on sunshine, rain, and grass
are widely known
and admired by all.
A consummate politician,
he offends no one
but New England farmers,
who hate his appetites.
Three methods
of eradication
are currently popular.
Green consumers vote
for trapping, and release him
on the town line. Traditionalists
favor slow death by smoking rag
stuffed down his hole.
Radicals blast him out
with cherry bombs
sheathed in glass containers.

The ordinary citizen

simply fills his holes
again and again. Unlike
many other animals,
the chuck is provident,
always digging front and side and back doors,
always leaving himself
a way out.

14
Opossum
(from Virginia Algonquian, opossam, “white dog”)

Let’s face it: he’s a nerd.

Nocturnal, arboreal, lacking
interpersonal skills,
he dodges crowds;
bald-faced, he always looks
as if he’s lost his specs;
shabby rat-tailed omnivore,
he’s the slothful second cousin
whose marsupial connections
only grandmothers remember,
the almost-albino boy that bullies
pick on at the beach.
He’s a real Clark Kent:
pretending he’s knocked out,
he’s everyone who fell
to earth. We dream of being pushed
and just one time uncovering
the superselves concealed within
our flaccid names. With scarlet S
emblazoned on our chests, we want
to recognize our potency,
to say possum, I am able, I can.

15
Coyote
(from Nahuatl/Aztecan, coyotl)

With its mangy punk hairdo,

it’s a creature of fuzzy gender.
Lanky as an adolescent, brazen,
shy, it lopes through woods
and fields and even over
neat suburban lawns.
Aiming a razor gaze
in search of its desires,
it cocks its head to an unheard
song that thickens the pulse.
It’s the son with yellow eyes
who steals cars for fun
and profit; the daughter,
blouse torn as if by teeth,
smoking crack with friends.
Edgy pack-bound marauder,
it’s always someone else’s
child, the one we hope
not to see returning home,
the one we tell ourselves
will grow out of it,
who’s always on the cusp
of something.

16
Bobcat
New Hampshire bounties, “bobcat or lynx, $20; paid by fish and
game department.”
— “Fur Laws for the Season 1930-31,” Farmers’ Bulletin.

Feral feline with a capital F,

he haunts the neighbor’s barn
when the temperature drops,
knowing that four-legged
food will move indoors
with him. He’s coming back
to settled places, small towns
where busy people doubt
he lives, think they’ve seen
the chocolate Lab that romps
just down the leafy street,
at worst a compact coyote
that keeps the rodent population
down. Graceful spotted ghost,
he leaves behind a chill that never
eases. Glimpsing him requires we
stay prepared, keep quiet, and look
for the missing tail.

17
Muskrat (“Hudson Seal”)*
(from the Abenaki, moskwas)

You’re more
than a fur coat.
Marsh master, crepuscular builder,
champion breath-holder,
you’re too modest:
that fabled dive saved us all,
with Turtle you made a new earth.
Rat-tailed omnivore,
you’re a rodent, not a rat. Lying
upside down, lipstick-red mouth open,
sleek fur turned deep black,
you never saw the car,
the silver arc and
whirling black planet
that glanced at you unseeing.
Who waits for you, open-mouthed
in the warm wet dark?

* In Abenaki tradition, Muskrat (also known as Earthdiver) dove to the ocean

bottom and placed the earth she collected on Turtle’s back.

18
Belgian Mare and Foal

One hind foot cocked, she savors

April sun. Below her,
almost underneath her feet,
a bleached stone
or fallen branch.
Then up!
A flurry of legs,
the pour of a creamy tail,
the flash of a russet back.
The mare observes, and nods.

His jubilee complete,

he thrusts his nose
for the bulging udder,
emerges, charcoal muzzle spangled
with white.

19
First Frost

Usually happens here, the statisticians say,

when September ends. Predictive models fail
this year: the date’s over a month late,
a pregnant period, a growing out
of season. The garden still bears
stout carrots nipped by mice,
fat leeks, and rainbow chard, kale,
and cabbage sweetened
by cold. The nearby river still runs
fast and deep, water rushing
from sources no one knows.

20
Autumn Rain, New Hampshire Woods

The sun’s just dipped below

the ecliptic—equinox. Raindrops
dapple yellow leaves,
slide to rusty ferns.
The squirrels are more squirrely
than ever; we’ve never had
so many lusting for the ivory hickory nuts.
Crows war with pileated woodpeckers—
the big birds’ racket shakes tree tops.
This year of many rains
the mushrooms rise
in lush rings, fall
to mush by morning.

How many more times will we fret

the leaves’ scarlet departure,
worry the finches will survive
the snow, the skunk that eats the grubs
that eat our garden will
return?

We wait for winter, warily watch

the turkey vultures that settle
heavily in the tree tops.

21
Juncos in Snow

Barely freezing this morning—

the snow that stopped Virginia traffic
yesterday for fifty miles drifts mildly
in milky air. The hemlock branches
bear the weight with grace, as if
awaiting a turning point, when
the weighted cover cascades down
to needled ground.

Snow sticks sideways

on the leafless trees,
mottling bare limbs.

On days like these, my grandfather

led me tramping through the woods,
our snowshoes swishing below our breath;
he’d peer for tracks of squirrels, rabbits, deer.
Gone for more than forty years, he’d hope
to catch a glimpse of the bobcat that haunts
our neighbor’s barn, and sometimes
dashes through our grassy yard.

The storm’s settling into dusk.

A pair of dark-eyed juncos dart
their pink bills up and down,
plucking seeds from the vanishing path.
They seldom scare, keeping company
with slaty companions, cheering
the silences of a late gray day.

22
Night Ride in Early Snow

Dusk, his hooves whiff through white,

ghost trees hover,
the hill inclines.
We pause. His breath mists,
a distant bark halves the hush,
sunset streaks ochre and salmon
washed with gray. Far away,
a warning tower blinks red.
The saddle creaks;
between my legs his dark torso
folds and opens.

23
Night Mare
for Camilo

Obsidian, always
in heat, she sidles
from her silent stall,
echoes on the hidden
pavement of our day.

On her broad back

ride spectacular
car crashes, rapes,
abortions, subtle
betrayals.

The stars: sparks

from her unshod
hooves. Chipped
moon: sclera edging
a midnight eye.

24
Barn Fire

The first flame rises, smoke

unfurls. One snorts, another screams
and staggers down, eyes shade

like clouds passing over water. Whiskers, unholy candles—

a chestnut sheen consumed, fleshless
body fallen.

The firemen's yellow coats congeal from the inferno—

four of fifty-nine are saved.
The awful incense lasts

for days. The witnesses sift the char,

timber and bone, that fills the stone
foundation hole.

Do horses dream? Cylinders of carrot in outstretched

palms, alfalfa underfoot, still ponds at dawn?
Rolling clover fields whose only sound

is birdsong and quiet breath?

25
New Hampshire, Mid-March

Tree tops flush at dawn, melt makes Little River rise, foam fast.
The water runs between its banks like marrow.
Hemlocks sway, oak and shagbark touch bare branches, buds still
slender.
Withered hands, last fall’s last leaves cling to the Japanese maple
showered with red-breasted nuthatches, their black masks
concealing nothing but themselves.
False spring brings brown marmorated stinkbugs that fill floors, climb
walls, wanting out.
His eyes like wells in deep woods, an otter slides atop the last thick
skin of river ice.
No williwaw, a late windstorm drops limbs, winter’s bones, into a
gilded stream.

26
 Coronavirus Pastoral
Little River, NH, March 2020

Splintered at the base

a supine pine hovers
over the river, trailing
ice tassels. The rush
across rocks
drowns the drone
of cars crossing
the bridge. The sun
splinters through
an old oak, hollow
between big branches
twenty feet above
its mossy base. Behind
the pine, an eddy curls
in a shallow pool
that, come spring,
will harbor trout.

We’ve learned
in time, the snow
will melt, the trunk
will slide downstream;
unpeopled, the river
will deepen, darken
with a rising tide.

27
The Morning News
April 2020

The peepers’ sleigh bells are gone—

so’s Santa, and all the reindeer, too—
their lichen under ice they can’t lick through
(the climate’s changing)
while we indoor animals play
with YouTube videos of cities and towns
gone wild:
mountain goats atop trimmed Welsh hedges,
jackals howling in Tel Aviv,
feral Corsican boars,
grey langurs frolicking in Ahmedabad,
buffalo lumbering down
a New Delhi highway.
In Santiago a cougar climbs
a concrete wall.

Some images are fake, but the world

can still discover something real—
Punjabis see the Himalayas;
in L.A. the sky is blue—
and Times Square hosts ghosts
of shoppers and clickers and gawkers
gone home, the old order restored,
or another one
begun.

Along my country road,

pines groan and thrash
with spring storms,
as we, mere mortals, await
returning winter’s wild
white weight.

28
Bad for You

Shelter in place, you say, and our place is better than most, and we
know we’re lucky, because everyone has different shelters, even the
squirrels, the sleeping woodchucks, the chickadees and sparrows, the
bobcat in the neighbor’s barn, and us, huddled in the winter woods,
surrounded by hemlock and hickory, taking hikes to go somewhere,
anywhere, even out and back or up and down North Mountain,
stepping off the path and holding our breaths when others approach,
avoiding grocery stores too busy at the pre-dinner rush, eating our own
cooking night after night after night, not relishing the chili’s sixth
installment, but being too cooked ourselves to care much, spooning
dollops of Greek yogurt on top, smearing it like icing a cake, but we
don’t eat cake, because the latest science says sugar is bad for you, so
we eat oranges, bananas, Granny Smith apples, kiwis and raspberries
when we can get them, although too much fruit isn’t good either, just
like too much red meat, which causes cancer, we’re now told, which
doesn’t matter, because we favor chicken and fish, and even those in
moderation, so we’re eating vegan more often, because we know that
flesh of any kind is bad for the planet’s health.

29
The Lee Bear
Lee, NH, June 2021

Right now, the river’s her only ambition.

She does not care that she lives near
a college town. She knows what she wants—
the weird May heat demands relief—moving
into new, well-watered territory regardless
of what people think. Well-heeled
commuters like the town, and she does too:
cost does not concern her, the taxes
are not too high, the traffic’s not bad.
She’s plush, enjoys a view, and can afford
to settle here, near plunge pools with trout,
a subtle current edged with ferns, shaded
by hemlock and oak. Despite the droughts
the warming winters bring,
the Little River meets her needs.
Her shortened sleep keeps everyone awake,
watching for her ambling bulk, waiting
for when she helps herself to unattended hens
or cools her fur in someone’s backyard
swimming pool. Although she’s rare
the Lee bear could happen
almost anywhere.

30
Gallus gallus domesticus (chicken)

What was Noah thinking

when he saved them
from the flood?
They rule the world,
these birds more numerous
than swallows, next in line
for avian primacy.
Last year 66 billion
were hatched, dwarfing
the long-gone passenger pigeon,
that counted only 5 billion
among their aerial relations.

Everyone today could have

nearly nine hens each,
if we shared.

Their crowded beakless brood awaits

the coming inundation, when
their ancestors’ blood returns
to lumber among new giants,
and their old bones populate
the dumps with fossil remains.

31
 Anthropocene Blues

This winter the bluebirds

have stuck around, snowbirds
of a different sort. I spied them
checking out new digs,
the handmade house they rejected
last year. Three degrees this morning,
but the temperature’s rising fast.
By afternoon, last night’s scanty snow
that floated down
like a memory
is gone

The river still runs black,

we haven’t skated on anything
but the make-do kiddie rink
with a six-inch edge
that the town fathers created
with a green garden hose.
Fall’s harvest dwindles
in the overheated cellar,
the last butternut squash
reminds us of summer sun,
while we wait for planting
season, dreaming
of eating bitter greens.

32
Returning
April, 2021

The goldfinches are back

better than butter
melting in cursive swirls
landing briskly briefly
in the Japanese maple outside
my yawning office window
teasing me to stop
work and go outside
in the lavender dawn
that smells like fir and water
and cheers the ruddy
house finches the cardinals
and all their dim and colorful
kin to cheep chatter warble chirp
for pure pleasure
in themselves
and their mates
unknowing but helping
us weary ones
unremember
winter’s wastes

33
 Ides of March, 2021

In this latitude, the sun leans in

as Earth hurtles
toward aphelion’s heat.
No lion’s roar behind,
no lamb’s fluff to come.
Woodland streams still clot with ice.
A scourge of starlings,
rowdy imports, clouds
the woods, announcing
their concerted animation.
Swamp maples’ red buds swell
above fractured Dunkin coffee cups,
single-serve Sutter Home white wine bottles,
redundant surgical masks.

Hard, now, to remember

December’s bright conjunctions
when Saturn and Jupiter briefly
shone shoulder to shoulder
as day declined to glittering sky.
Harder still to recall
the first conjunctions we learned
in grammar school, where and
attached siblings and friends before
becoming or but nor neither.

No poison ivy yet, but a breathless summer’s coming.

We gather trash in thick black bags,
keep watch over hunched shoulders
for cars, always rushing toward us
too fast, too soon.

34
Corporeal Diptych
I’m Nobody—
—Emily Dickinson

On Not Touching On Not Being Touched

Who are you? I envy the river rocks

Why are you for the water curling over
here? Why now? their backs, the ferns
What lies behind whose fronds interlace
that purple mask? and whisper when
And what about the south wind ripples
your other clothes? the wood’s edge;
Are you flirting the wren alighting
with color? Is firmly on the perch
your skin furry of the fanciful birdhouse on stilts
or shaved? that our neighbor built,
Is it sable surrounding it
or gold, with ropes of bittersweet vines,
cinnamon and the wren’s feet
or cream? gripping the perch.
I envy the ants that crawl
Are you alone? across the peony buds
Or does your so they can open
lover hold you to the sun,
safe against and the peony petals—
everything how closely, softly packed
you cannot they are, how they share
see? and compound fragrance.

35
Skaters

Disturbing oaks’ reflections,

the water striders swirl, spin, still
in the river’s quiet curl.
Fish food for trout,
they gather in teardrop
groups, tighten
then scatter frenzied
when I wade in.
The early summer sun penetrates
the surface, revealing
trapezoidal rocks that seem to lie
behind an amber stained-glass window.

The little river’s low—drought

this year, and last, and maybe
next year, too, the forecast
uncertain till the time arrives—
the great blue heron poised
above the slow pool before
he plunges for his pointed thrust.

Making soundless loops,

the skaters dimple artless water—
they’re on top and cannot see
the quick shadow
that glides beneath
the river’s lucent skin,
the gulf that lies
below.

36
Squunck
(from
(from the
the New
New England
England Algonquian;
Algonquian; in
in English,
English, skunk)
skunk)

Who are you to sniff

at me? White or black
or brown, you still stink.
I may be an outsider,
but only because I live
in open air, uncontained
by the doors like coffin lids
that suffocate you inside
your fancy boxes. My country
has no borders and no walls—
I walk the streets as I please.
So do my offspring and kin,
those you call a surfeit.
But we’re never too much.
We’re parsimonious,
not prodigal, with our scent.
One squirt’s usually enough.

37
37
Opassum
Opassum
“An
“An Opassum hath an
Opassum hath an head
head like
like aa Swine,
Swine, and
and aa taile
taile like
like aa Rat,
Rat,
and is of the bignes of a Cat.”
and is of the bignes of a Cat.”
—
—John
John Smith,
Smith, Map
Map of Virginia (1612)
of Virginia (1612)

Maybe
Maybe I’m I’m shy,shy, but but otherwise
otherwise
you’ve got it
you’ve got it wrong— wrong—
I’m
I’m stronger
stronger than than you you know.
know.
How else have
How else have I alone I alone
among
among so so many
many pocketed
pocketed relations
relations
survived
survived these many million
these many million years,
years,
this
this side
side ofof thethe wide
wide waters?
waters?
My
My white
white faceface haunts
haunts your your nights.
nights.
You’ll
You’ll see my signature in
see my signature in mud—
mud—
opposable
opposable thumb, thumb, plantigrade
plantigrade
amble.
amble. You You won’twon’t miss miss
what
what II take:
take: ratsrats andand mice,
mice,
beetles,
beetles, crickets,
crickets, cockroaches.
cockroaches.
I’ll
I’ll teach
teach you you what
what it it means
means
to come from
to come from old roots old roots
and
and diedie young,
young, if if
you
you stop telling
stop telling tales—
tales—
my
my prehensile
prehensile tail’s tail’s no no
rope,
rope, I’mI’m no no monkey
monkey hanginghanging
from
from aa swaying
swaying branch. branch.
II just
just want
want to to be
be left
left alone.
alone.
II know when
know when to quit to quit
and
and when
when to fight.
to fight.
Wake
Wake me me up.up.
Let
Let me show
me show you you my my teeth.
teeth.

38
38
Ockqutchaun
(from the Northeastern Algonquian; in English, woodchuck)
Ockqutchaun
Hate’s a big word,
(from the Northeastern Algonquian; in English, woodchuck)
but I know you dislike me,
Ockqutchaun
not
Hate’s
(from because
a big
the I’m
word, squatAlgonquian; in English, woodchuck)
Northeastern
or fat or mostly
but I know you dislike me,
Ockqutchaun vegetarian.
You’re
Hate’s
not aproud
because big I’m your
word, squat garden’s
(from the Northeastern Algonquian; in English, woodchuck)
lush,
but I think
know me
you greedy
or fat or mostly vegetarian.dislike but
me,covet
my
not
You’re
Hate’s share
because of I’m
aproud
big greens,
word, squat
your are angry
garden’s
Ibut
or enjoy
lush, fat oramostly
think
I know nibble,
me perhaps
vegetarian.
yougreedy
dislike but
me,acovet
little
more.
You’re
my share
not You
proud
because haul
of I’m out
your
greens,
squat traps
garden’s
are angry
with
lush, fatnames
I enjoy
or think thatgreedy
me
oramostly
nibble, let youbut
perhaps
vegetarian. lieacovet
little
about
my
more. You
You’re yourself,
share of
proud haul but
greens, to me
are
outgarden’s
your trapsangry
Ithe
with
lush, Havahart
enjoy a nibble,
names
think means
that
me perhaps
let
greedy youbutlieacovet
little
prison,
more.
about
my then
You
yourself,
share exile.
ofhaul outto
but
greens, traps
aremeangry
Who
with
Ithe will
names
Havahart
enjoy feed
that
a nibble, my
meanslet chucklings
you liea little
perhaps
if I’m yourself,
about
prison,
more. gone?
thenhaul
You Can but
exile. I help
out to memy lust
traps
for
the spinach,
Havahart
Who names
with will feed baby
means
thatmy lettuce?
letchucklings
you lie
Don’t
prison, you
thenlove
if I’m yourself,
about gone? Can them,
exile.
but to too?
I help memy lust
Everyone
Who
for spinach,
the Havahart likes
will feed baby variety.
my
means chucklings
lettuce?
The
if I’mafternoon
Don’t
prison, gone?
you
thenloveCan sun I feels
them,
exile. help as good
my
too? lust
on
for my
Everyone
Who broad
spinach,
will likes
feed brown
babymy back
lettuce?
variety.
chucklings
as
The it afternoon
Don’t
if I’m does
youon
gone? loveyour
Can sun Ibare
them, help skin.
too?
feels as good
my lust
You
Everyone
on my
for wonder likes
broadbaby
spinach, how I know
variety.
brown back
lettuce?
to
as run
The
Don’t when
it afternoon
does
you on you
love sun
your appear—
feels
bare
them, as good
skin.
too?
but
on you’re
my
You wonder
Everyone broad there
likesbrown
how for more
back
I know
variety.
than
as
to run
The making
it afternoon
does
when fun
on you
your ofbare
howskin.
sunappear—
feels as good
my
You
butmy
on flesh
wonder
you’re shakes
broad how
there
brownwhen
forI know
more
back
you
to
thanit shout,
as run when
making
does oryou
on lift appear—
fun
your your
of how
bare gun.
skin.
Too
but bad
you’re
my flesh
You wonderI’m fast,
there
shakes for
howwhen and
I know as hell.
smart
more
than
you
to run making
shout,
when fun
oryoulift of
your how
appear— gun.
Hate does not appear anywhere
my
Too flesh shakes when
among the seven deadly sins,as hell.
but bad
you’re I’m fast,
there forand smart
more
you
than shout,
making orfunlift of
your how gun.
though
Hate it probably
does notfast,
appear should.
Too
my bad
flesh I’m
shakes and anywhere
when smart as hell.
Even
amongif the youseven
kill me,deadly sins,
you
my shout,
kin
Hate does are notlift
or
hungry, your
appear too.gun.
anywhere
though it probably should.
Too bad
I’m innocent
among I’m fast, deadly sins,as hell.
and
as grass. smart
Even if the
youseven
kill me,
Nothing,
though
my
Hatekin it
are
does not even
probably
hungry,
not appear death,
should.
too.
anywhere
is simple
Even if
I’m innocent
among in
you this
kill
the seven world,
me,
as grass.
deadly sins,
though
my kin it
Nothing,
though are
it may
not be death,
hungry,
even
probably too.
should.
in
I’m the
is simple
Even next.
innocent
if you If as
in this there
grass.
world,
kill me, is one.
Nothing,
though
my kin itarenot
may even
be death,
hungry, too. 39
is
in simple
I’m the next.
innocent in If
this
as world,
there
grass.is one.
though it may be
Nothing, not even death, 39
in the next.
is simple in If
thisthere
world,is one.
though it may be 39
in the next. If there is one.
Acknowledgments

“Anthropocene Blues,” South Shore Review (April 2022).

“Autumn Rain, New Hampshire Woods,” Waco Wordfest Anthology (2022).
“Backyard Hawk,” THINK (Summer/Fall 2022).
“Barn Fire,” Northern New England Review (2022).
“Belgian Mare and Foal,” Caesura: RESET (2022).
“Coronavirus Pastoral,” in COVID Spring: Granite State Pandemic Poems (2020).
“Corporeal Diptych,” About Place Journal (October 2021).
“Coyote,” Woven Tale Press Magazine (December 2022).
“First Frost,” Humana Obscura (Fall/Winter 2022).
“First Garden, Woodchuck, Woman,” Naugatuck River Review
(Winter/Spring 2023).
“Gallus gallus domesticus,” Wordpeace (Summer/Fall 2022).
“Ides of March, 2021,” in Covid Spring II: More Granite State Pandemic
Poems (2021).
“Juncos in Snow,” Bloodroot (2023).

“The Lee Bear,” Confluence (2023).

“The Morning News,” The Avenue Journal (2023).

“Muskrat (‘Hudson Seal’),” Frost Meadow Review (Fall/Winter 2021).

“New Hampshire, Mid-March, Feral (January 2023).

“Night Ride in Early Snow,” Farmer-ish Print Annual 2022 (2022).

“Opassum,” Woven Tale Press Magazine (December 2022).
“Opossum,” Confluence (2023).

“Returning,” Woven Tale Press Magazine (December 2022).

“Skaters,” Friends Journal (May 2022).
“Skunk,” in An Eclectic Bestiary: Encounters in a More-than-Human World
(2019).
“Woodchuck,” Woven Tale Press Magazine (December 2022).

40
In this beautifully crafted collection of poems, Karen Kilcup writes about how
isolation due to covid brought nature to our doors, examining human kindness
and cruelty as it encroaches. In “Squunck” the skunk observes us as well. “I live
/ in open air, uncontained / by the doors like coffin lids / that suffocate you inside
/your fancy boxes.” Kilcup also laments isolation. In “On Not Being Touched”
she writes, “I envy the river rocks / for the water curling over / their backs.” In
“Belgian Mare and Foal” Kilcup celebrates a birth: “A flurry of legs / the pour of
a creamy tail, / the flash of a russet back. / The mare observes, and nods.” I am
enamored of Karen Kilcup’s work and am honored to have had the chance to
publish two of the poems from this collection. —Lee (Lori) Desrosiers, author of
The Philosopher’s Daughter, Sometimes I Hear the Clock Speak, and Keeping
Planes in the Air, and editor of Naugatuck River Review and Wordpeace

All too often we humans are guilty of a “habit / of not seeing what’s there,” as
Karen Kilcup claims in her poem “The Sixth Cat.” But in these poems, she pays
attention. Red Appetite is filled with close looks at the myriad of creatures that
share our planet, from the tiny water striders that “cannot see / the quick shadow
/ that glides beneath / the river’s lucent skin, / the gulf that lies / below” to the
bobcat, the “graceful spotted ghost,” that “leaves behind a chill that never /
eases.” From a deep observation of the small lives we often glimpse in our wild
and more-domesticated spaces, these poems deftly straddle a first-time
gardener’s fierce frustration with the wild pillagers that seek the same bitter
greens in spring as we do, and the often humorous empathy for those small lives
we too often overlook.
—Katherine Solomon, author of Tempting Fate

Red Appetite is a taxonomy of the joy and quirks of animals that live around us,
haunted all the while by death and the COVID lockdown. In these tight, lyrical
poems, mortality hunts the speaker like the bobcat that stalks the barnyard and
the woodchuck that undermines the garden. These poems echo Maxine Kumin’s
ethical introspection while others hint at the starkness of Robinson Jeffers’
animal poems. The music here allows the reader a taste of the sublime in the
midst of a world that is always falling and rising:
The neighbor’s ornamental cherry tree / sags with blooms. Too soon, /
they’ll wash the dark ground / with pink, soft underfoot, as if / someone
holding her breath / exhaled.
Red Appetite is a focused meditation on how we are reflected in these animals,
both domesticated like the barnyard cat or mare, and more wild like the possum,
junco, and bobcat. Kilcup’s collection is a nuanced read that leads one to rejoice
in spring and reflect that new life is due only to the coldness brought by winter.
—Gregory Byrd, author of The Name for the God Who Speaks, winner of the
2018 Robert Phillips Prize
ISBN 9781937347796
51200 > Red Appetite
Evening Street Press
Poems by Karen Kilcup
9 781937 347796
Evening Street Press