We Ate the Birds
the cat left a body on the porch.
It was a yellow songbird,
the size and shape of my 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
while she stalked a warbler
and sunk her teeth into his throat.
A friend of mine admitted that after the initial allure
of romance, women begin to lose their color.
I imagine a film of myself in the kitchen,
greyscale, looking sallow and too thin.
Lately, the cat and I share black matte pupils.
We hunch together 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:
the beak, two feet,
a bundle of saffron feathers.