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CHAPBOOKS

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.

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