FROM THE BIRD EATERS
We Ate the Birds
This morning
the cat left a body on the porch.
It was a yellow songbird,
the size and shape of a fist.
The cat wasn't hungry.
I understand. This morning
I dipped my pinky finger into a cup of hot tea
just past the fingernail so
I could feel the heat from all angles.
Lately, the cat and I share matte black pupils.
We hunch over the body
of the bird, plucking feathers to reveal
a sheet of transparent skin and
delicate, hollow bones.
Though neither of us have an appetite,
the cat and I make a meal of his body.
We leave behind only keratin:
beak, two feet,
a bundle of saffron feathers.
