JULIE DOXSEE
THE ONE WHO SWALLOWED FALCONS
In the night a hard beak
speaks your preference
for live mice via
puppet
throat, embossed wings
in a swan dive under your
collar. I feel the black
eye peek through your mouth, that mouse-nest
hair of mine eyed for signs of scampering.
I sleep well-covered by pillows.
In the day you talk falcon talk.
Ordinarily I would
fear the talons of a
killer, tongue of the eye
aligned with the flesh of my
head. You drove me double,
stuffed me
into a backpack
already full of me.