Tom Sexton divides his time between Alaska and Maine, spending half of every year in Eastport. His poem describes the movement of a porcupine through the twists, turns and surprises of a single sentence. Sexton writes, “I hope my short lines move as slowly as the porcupine does.”
PORCUPINE
By Tom Sexton
Its movement on
the ground is
that of a bag
of stones rolled
downhill, a spilled
quiver of black-
tipped arrows, but
now, on this
cold March morning,
it is raising the
dark flag of itself
to the top of
an ancient tree
like an explorer
claiming the world
in the name
of all that is Porcupine.
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