Jeune fille mangeant un oiseau (after René Magritte)

Because you were young and proper, you drew

birds from the tree with both hands. Your tender

fingers reached hard into their sternums, caught

with the silence of song. A placid face of love

for their little throat muscles like lute strings

sharp and snapping. You chomped until your lips

were seductress red, defying the space-time

of your androgyny. If the other chirps try

to peck out your teeth, or regard with hate

the flightless wings peeled away from trunk,

it’s no shift, your cheeks stay cadaverous,

interred in the heedless soil of your hair.

Tawny, you pray like Daphne your feet will root

low into this forest, your body curve and swell

to a burst of mossy emerald, quitting your browns.

Unknowing birds will fly to your arms and the men

entranced by your evergreen will circle in awe.

And when they all collect, you’ll open your mouth—