by Annette Marie Smith
Your fur was soft enough
to butter my greedy hands
with wild abandon embodied
in a flock of red robins whose breasts trembled
with warning but also with music
wild and clear and piercing.
Your fangs looked to be just the thorns
I would impale myself on
were I a thorn bird
looking to sing my penultimate song.
I mythologized you whilst simultaneously
And now what have I done
but make a blanket of memories,
a pelt filled with stones
that speak and bear witness
to the listening ears of my bones.