The house you live in:
cobbler’s scraps of animal skin
crystal constellations in the hall,
the lounge gouged by claws,
and not one
clean cup. Here, a burned out bonfire,
feathers clumped in the yard.
Swampland stench, and natives whose
adventitious roots wriggle up
from mud. I came that afternoon
on the day you killed that duck. You
brought it down from mangroves
with a bow. An endangered duck
by unfamiliar hands. Guilty,
you pulled the plumage, pimpled the skin.
You were rough; you ruptured
bowels. Your housemate
who taxidermies roadkill
convinced you to cook it,
gobbets of raw
muscle sour in your mouth.