i don't want to write a poem without you

they split the moon to make 
your feet. hoof prints in the dark. 
i have to do robot things today
& the sun doesn't have any fur. i was standing
in front of the hummus at the supermarket
after you died thinking, "why am i here?"
everything seemed strange. the neon 
& the carts & the day moving on. at home,
i pick leaves for you. separate out your favorite
& feed them to the others. they tell me
they miss your eyes. the moon is cleaved.
drips nectar. forms pools in the mud. 
she is a ripe melon. i would feed you
all the airplanes caught from between the stars.
i would stay up until the days turned over
& over. i still remember carrying you 
through a crowded farm festival. 
you cried until you got home. the yard.
your bleating in the morning before i brought hay.
i do not know how anyone could say 
"just animals" when talking about
the other bodies who hold up the sky with us.
i feel all of them. the deer whose body sleeps
beneath the cedar. the quail who left 
one by one like ellipses. i wish only that 
the last night was better. that we all slept in a pile
beside one another. that i became a goat too
& we spoke finally in a shared language.
your breath & my hair. hoof prints
leading up to the moon where we rest 
& nothing is loud. in the car, parked beside
an ugly gas station, i could smell 
the soil-laden must of your fur. the lights
washed out the stars so i drove home.
parked & wept. fed the others again. 
carrots. watermelon. grapes. i told them 
to eat extra tonight for you.