squirrel meat 

gut the moon. replace my eyes
with walnuts. winter is going to 
make apples of us. in school 
everyone’s lunch boxes were 
full of squirrel meat. they feasted 
while i ate imaginary spaghetti.
i pictured the tree dwellers 
with their bones undone.
hung in the kitchen like twin socks. 
a bruise forms in the shape of
my mothers face. she is asking 
if the casserole winked at me.
it did not but i am too hungry 
to mind. a dissection diagram.
i never sleep well. who am i
kidding? who is plucking out
the squirrel’s heart just to find 
it is only a cherry. you wear a fur
coat & tell me it is faux even though
we both can tell it’s not.
the moon doesn’t crawl back.
we were going too far again. i faint 
& when i wake up you tell me it’s been 
5000 years. the clock on the wall
says you’re lying. it’s only been
a decade. i measure tule. i measure 
time in meat. muscle bone. 
lunch box buzzing. faint taste
of chestnuts. a quail egg singing 
in my hand. she won’t hatch
but we can pretend we will be fathers.