Meg Cowen, gently released at close range (oil and pastel over black-and-white photograph)
The bird bled past the shed lay yawning
halved peach mouth to the light
the beak the bird the fox bled gaped
weed strangled, petalled
by mandible, a sound less
steel daffodil the fox forgot
They say shame is a soul eater
foul water where the body used to be
They say shame is not for dying
but hiding, the fox’s art
I wanted to feel
what was hidden
At the sun bristled mouth—
I put my bare fingers in