Our bed is elevated. The serval hunts
on wires. Breaks open a butterfly. Dust
crushed in a vertical pounce. Lovemaking
on the proscenium. And lovemaking
in the hardware section. Our bed,
strung on wires. Our serval makes
a proscenium of love. We break
open the butterfly with a vertical
crush. Our eyes closed in deep grass
for up to fifteen minutes, the stillness
before the leap. Your paws clamp down.
Break open our lovemaking: the dust
crushes out. What else so honestly
powders itself to our paws? Butterflies,
hunted. Make do with the wares
we have offered each other. We receive
a proscenium closed in deep grass.
Your serval breaks open her hardware,
dusts our bed. And at my pounce
a proscenium closes. Your paws clamp
our bed: a lovemaking. The hunter
sleeps a hunt in our bed. The feline
twitch and flex of hardware. We elevate
our hands, the bed, we hunt the butterfly,
a vertical pounce. This lovemaking
breaks open. What dust crushes out
from us. What dust on wires we are.
What dust so honestly itself in deep grass
for up to fifteen minutes. The eyes clamp
on wires. The butterfly, dust-hunting.
The proscenium closes our lovemaking.
What else on wires, what else breaks
open: the hunter the hunted loves making.
stuck long unbuckled in the middle seat sweating—
we buzz toward the black and blue sails—tsetse flies
(—vectors carry disease—mark the path
of force)—sterilized—sails keep the population
down—a shared design—the lion stands
on a giraffe’s head and chews—the family has
a thirst—a vision—imagining through lenses
bent—maggots nest in zebras’ nostrils
when they’re still—alive—it takes just a quick
imitation—of corpse—watching—nothing
we’ve done surprises—the space from mind
to eye—the lively socket what’s in there—
clockwork—motion but—not dance—the vulture’s
black wings spread still—not death—the drying after
The garden-party feline flexes his paws.
Tremor and tremble, swat the thimble.
Rust skitters over bricks. The box
on her belt keeps her blood sugared. He bats
the wire, bolts, she shivers, under her chair
a screw unthreads itself. Hunted
from the begonias, she holds it together.
Bunch of pleats dramatic in a thin-veined fist.
Acne arm, colored frames askew—but just so.
Thumping in temples her blood is a slow-
dance beat. Her delicate ankle bound
in a strappy number, she stands, teeters,
the feline scrounges the corners for spillage.
Buds unfurl, a nub sprouts to thorn, we
congregate in the cat’s domain with our pastries
and time. What can’t we celebrate? A plane
shifts the clouds, the wall garbles the traffic,
the news, our empathy condenses, these
mason jars of booze, some suffering, the claw
streak left white down her calf, and what else
shall we call to sacrifice? The ice is vapid
in our glasses, chittering over muddled mint.
Her dress is covered with flowers but is not
made of flowers. I slouch down to eclipse
the sun with her head. She’s an angel,
the light strikes from her head, a liberty
crown, the box beeps, I feel the tug
of claw and fang upon my shoelace knot.