Tea Up High
we hung the crow
from the same branch
the tire swing was chained
then set up high tea 
his wings released
feathers into the cream
bluebirds landed on power lines
we poured chamomile
leaves into teacups
in the house, our mother gave birth
to a soldier kitted with uniform and gun
the crow cried cinnamon tea
we sliced up cucumbers
and dipped them in mayonnaise
his wings stilled
we bit down on caviar
as dark as his eyes
liquid seeped down our throats
On my plate are the ribs
of a baby animal. My mother
slathered them in sludgy
barbeque sauce.
I slice white chunky
fat from the meat and feel
the silence of the endless
cavern within my chest.
I cut the rest of the meat
from the bones and into
squares, then capture
a piece with my fork.
My teeth are dull. I grind
them at night while I dream
of my mother breaking the necks
of an ark full of animals.
My teeth work the stringy
meat from cheek to cheek
until I swallow and set
my cutlery on my plate.
I breathe, rub my hand along
my side, close my eyes, and feel
for ribs under flesh. I imagine
myself on the cutting board.
My mother opens me up and pulls
slender curves of bones from me
until the counter leaks red. She slides
a finger in her mouth for a taste.
I open my eyes, scrape the dead
animal onto the floor, and watch
the dogs as they snap the bones
and wet the floor with their saliva.