In my dream I confuse two nature programs
Zebulon Huset

and see roving bands of smooth-coated otters
patrolling the sprawl of an Indonesian
suburb like street-smart toddlers, looting
houses through unlocked doors. Yet
their ominousness extended past the image
of squeak-toy that I’d seen on TV—
grooming—an orgy of full-bodied
Eskimo kisses mixed with a chinchilla dusting.

The otters, here, instead of monkeys
carried the small orange fruit in their hands
as they hop chain link fences with ease,
gaze directly into camera, or in this case,
directly into my iris and slowly peel
the fruit like thugs from some ’50s movie,
black leather jackets glinting off
bright stage lights of the equator.

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