Summoned from the glasshouse
I join my husband to stare at the animal,
unmoving in a hole.
New to the area, he is affronted
by this thing he doesn’t know.
I tell him it is a hedgehog,
its hibernation disturbed by our looting.
He is unconvinced – pests always come out in Spring.
It is better to sacrifice one hundred innocents
than to let one guilty one go free.
History will forget it, my husband says,
and so should you.
That night, I wake in a sweat,
having dreamt of a hedgehog on its back,
tiny legs poking out of fresh soil.
In the morning, I throw a little more dirt on the grave,
mark the first post of our house,
bury my poem.