Avian Autopsies and Other Romantic Dreams

I see the crow split open
when I should be watching the ocean,

a stain between frothing white lace
and shell-bedded skin. I can’t stop thinking

about the utter wrongness of its body—
talons curved inward yet still poised

for slaughter, the red wanting
where a beak should be, eyes and mouth lost

to another creature’s hunger. I wonder if it drowned,
those tarred wings wilting first, or if its neck

had given way like ribbon. I’m not sure
which one I prefer. Either way,

there’s carnage. I think I’m in love
right now and all I want is beaches

full of dead birds. A flood of limbs
washing up onshore. Seascapes sparkling

bright with bone. I know this longing well—
the same way a knife only knows

the yielding purr of softness
as the world curls around it,

how a shark only knows
bloodshed & swimming. This is

how bad it is: I need
someone else’s mouthful

of glossed teeth, or at least
something sharp in my throat. I deserve

a proper maiming. I hope I never
get used to the wound.