ON BECOMING

When the family dog goes missing, you go days
without showering & coat your gums with moss,

take to comb & spray your bush
thick in artichoke. Admit it.

Fall & find him in the woods. His head now
unrecognizable, a black wool of flies sticks to him.

Bring him to the meatswap & trade his skull
for a bundle of beets, his teeth for peonies.

With machete in hand, hack open the belly
of a pregnant cow. With placenta shriveled,

you crawl inside. It’s winter. There is no more light.
Strap a deer’s face to your own.

Take antlers for ears.