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.