Because I want to be a wolf; because the earth smells
of sinew and green. Because his hair was made of corn dust
and cloud and I wanted to weave it around me, trust
his sky. Because Eros did not strike my thigh or breast;
instead he plunged knives into my chest and kept the heart
beating. Because lunge is so similar to lung, both
attempting a breath. Because I was breathing
when my mother bore me, and this was written down
on a chart next to the names of other living things—
and some of them were masculine; because this was not
a female breath. Because it took years to tame my teeth
and still I try to use them; because they are pretty. Because
I feel like thunder often, dance like snow; because
I am living. Because his arms were made of roots
and I wanted to trust cultivation. Because the sky tastes
of lilac and honey; because I am breathing because its wound
has made more room inside my chest. Because I lunged
when hungry and almost used my teeth; because
a body seems heavier after its dead, even though it isn’t.
You can heft its corpse anywhere without cooperation
if you have the stamina. If you’re big and strong enough.