Depression Stalks My Family Like a Cougar
My brother’s was a mountain
lion in the bush north of Nordegg.
He never saw it but followed
its scat to the psych ward.
My mother’s was a taxidermied
beast on the back wall of Bass Pro.
She visited it on weekends, declared
When I die, I want to be mounted by that cat.
My father’s chased him off
a bridge in the middle of the night.
Maybe it only wanted to play but
it had his mother’s face.
Mine wanders through my backyard,
devours suet cake left for winter chickadees,
leaves dinner-plate sized pawprints in the snow.
I'm always dreading the pounce.
Kendra Whitfield lives and writes on the southern edge of the Canadian northern boreal forest. When not writing, she can be found basking in sunbeams on the deck or swimming laps at the local pool. Her poetry has been anthologized by Beyond the Veil Press and Community Building Art Works.