he told me,
"the problem with our flesh,
is that it doesn't do so well
as to protect our bones;
you may prefer your heart to be bare
for the sake of calming the wolves
that you let slick your throat
with their rabid tongues,
but I know you know
that it's better to be the iron you taste,
than to be the polish for a man's gums,
and the wax for his teeth."

he painted my forehead
with the vermilion broth
he brewed from the throat of the hare,
and mopped his fingers clean
with my tongue
as we watched the vermin
give one last kick.

"but if you insist,
then I will be your cage
as I am your hunter,
and nothing will chew through
your pretty collarbone
before me."