Suddenly, somebody in the back of the station wagon
is yelling, Stop the car, there's a raccoon
back there, it's hurt, bleeding,
and I look up, see a small, dark shape
hurtling along the ditch, and then we're all
piling out of the car running down the hill, trying
to catch it, and then everyone's standing around
out of breath, watching it lurch and shiver in the underbrush
until someone, a voice says, We'll have to kill it, it's too far gone,
and we're picking up stones, hefting them for weight,
and I'm remembering the morning I helped
my mother die, how she shriveled up like paper,
and then I'm dragging myself back up the hill,
not wanting to think about how I hit it and hit it
until the little hands pulled into the body
and the lips and teeth and tongue
that fought me all my life
shriveled to a small dark hole.