To the raccoons of Jackson, Gallia, Lawrence, Scioto, Pike, and Vinton counties—

I’m sorry for what I did to your kind. 

For what was done through me. 

And I’m sorry that the “sensitive, soft” queer country boy 

still living in me 

feels the need to write this at all. 

​

Daddy thought coonhounds could tree 

on the dead, gnarled oak of our father-son bond— 

as if blood trails and skinned pelts 

could rouse what had long since rotted at the roots. 

He told himself he’d finally want the son he called “worthless”

once that boy got blood on his hands— 

just like he had. 

But the blood that dried stickily beneath my fingernails 

was yours. 

​

I’m sorry for checking those dog-proof traps 

every morning before sixth grade, 

for finding you coiled and trembling 

in the rising blue hush of dawn. 

I’m sorry for gripping Daddy’s old Maglite. 

Sorry for the cracking of bone and skullcap 

you couldn’t survive. 

He said he didn’t want holes in the fur, 

but I think he liked seeing me 

hurt something 

and learn how to hold back the tears. 

​

I’m sorry I couldn’t avoid 

loading the dogs into Daddy’s old Ranger 

for a quick turn-out or two, 

even when my gut turned over. 

If it’s any consolation, 

I was a pretty sorry dog handler. 

I never wanted to shine a beam on a treed hickory— 

not because I was afraid to find you there, 

but because I knew I would. 

And that meant 

I’d have to condemn you 

to lead and brass. 

​

I’m sorry I grew used to the sickly-sweet stench 

of your stiff body, 

reeking of sugar and iron.

Sorry for nicking the sinew 

that tethered skin to muscle 

with my dull blade. 

Even hanging muzzle-down, 

locked in rigor mortis, 

I knew it probably still hurt. 

​

I’m sorry for all the times I tried

to prove my daddy right— 

tried to prove I, too, could be 

hardened, 

cruel, 

worth something. 

The cruelty he bred into me 

wasn’t born— 

it was inherited. 

And it first reddened 

in the harm I dealt to you. 

​

I failed at resisting. 

My throat choked and swelled, 

but I still swung heavy. 

My fingers trembled, 

but I still pulled the trigger. 

My breath caught, 

but I still cut deep. 

My own cruelty began with your kind. But

I couldn’t bear to be what I became—the

one receiving his meanness, 

my own silence, 

the kind of love that only showed up

after something brutal. 

​

I promise it ends with me. 

My children won’t raise a gun toward you.

They won’t know the sensation 

of a knife biting into your wrists. They

won’t have to betray their gentleness for the sake of ruggedness— 

or for the approval of a man 

who only loves them 

because he has to. 

​

So now, 

every time I pass your kind 

sprawled on the shoulder 

of some twisting road, 

I’ll fall quiet in reverence,

and thank God 

it wasn’t me 

who put you there.