Perhaps it is poor night vision
that keeps us from seeing how you
preen our streets, devouring what
the sunlit crows have left behind.
We misunderstand your mouth,
crowded with keen-edged teeth
that dissect and undo the flesh
we are too squeamish, too unbrave
to carry with our human hands. We
should envy your thanatotic form, how
death visits you but then retreats. Why
do we not adore your prehensile tail,
how you dangle and brace and grip
like the acrobats we embellish
with sequins and tulle? The darkness
inside your pouch, the nyctophilic
eyes ripening within, should allure us
like the night sky we wish watched
over our city noise: the one so thick
with stars we’re less blind for its light.
–
Brittney Corrigan’s poetry collections include Navigation, 40 Weeks, Breaking, and Daughters. She was raised in Colorado and lives in Portland, Oregon, where she is an alumna and employee of Reed College. Brittney is currently at work on her first short story collection.