ODE TO WHEELCHAIR:
Cavernous maw. Sweat-slick, greedy, a jutting of red / teeth. Or maybe they're purple. Or maybe they're / gray, and this mouth is unnecessary. At any rate, there is no / body. No bloated vessel. Only this: A procession of limbs—meatless, / gnawed bloody. In another life, the dog chews its foot / off. In another life, the dog springs a trap. A sacrificial lamb– / limb. In this life, you are the dog. The dog chews its foot off / and the foot gives birth to wings. But this is not about the dog, / which is to say this is not about you. A dog– / no, a basset hound– / no, a collie. A collie chews its foot off and earns itself a wheel- / chair. A wide, yapping mouth. Night bends, gracing violent / curves. The dog is a woman is a siren. Less girl, more / warning. A hand reaches through the forest—wrist, / limp. Crooked finger, / bowed back. Quiet murders, stealing through the haze. Listen: / The dog gives up. It never makes it to the next round. You should know / how this ends. Consider it a gift. In the distance, a leg / snaps. Crows spill from gaping femurs, scissored laughter, / a flash of witching hour–
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