I Am That Bird

Let us pretend, beloved, that

this is the skin you wore yesterday.

Allow me to lick the salt from your

lips and I’ll ignore the black dog

who at night, stalks my fire escape

and feasts upon the lull of a sleepless—sleep.

The dog who drags me back from

the cliffs of a steady breath

and bites salt from my lips.

I want to take this dog.

I want to see her —your her—

knot her fingers in its shabby fur,

and flail beneath its jaw.

So I can see the inside of her body—

all thinness—a red delicacy.

I want to see which vein you loved,

so I can know for sure

that you have been there:

the muscle —a tendon— the tightening

of how you were inside her.

But I feel the bloom of your iris

steal into the pound of my chest,

so I forgive how these

hands —broken hands—

never tore through my hair.

My pupils just fill with bowed heads

and pleading wrists

while the dog gnaws

at the break of my ankles.

And in this little moan of bloodied floor

and sodden wood,

the kiss of your mouth

grazes my neck’s snap—

your fingers trickle up my thigh

into a little pool of Never Enough.

You had tried to warn me about the time

the power line snapped

while all the birds were asleep—

but the dog had torn my ears from me by then.

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