the girl as pet

August 18, 2009 § Leave a comment

get out from under there.
no, she says.
i want to understand the habits of animals. why they hide
in places i cannot reach.
usually to die, i say.

she makes her neck bend to make room
for the wooden slats that make up the porch floor:

broken-bent.

New Shapes, her animal body.

Her shins are matte from the dirt. somehow,
hems brown, only.
We don’t need to hide to understand, I remind her.
I reminded her of this at least once a day.
She folds her arms around her knees and frowns at me.
Every line on her face points downward.

I can feel her breath creeping out through the tight corners of her expression.
Leaning forward, I put my knees into the soil and crawl underneath.
My fingers run into her toes, in between.
Instantly, the rain screams in a singular tone as it collides with the
panels above us.
and then coolness in my hair,
running over my forehead and into my eyes.
The soil rises up around us as it swells with water.
Her breathing grows damp, heavy with dampness,
And she grabs my hand underneath all of the mud.

You scatter and sow me into the ground as if I could make things grow.
You pour water over me.
I am no forest. I am not your forest.
But I can make a burial for an animal like you.

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