a collaboration by BEN CARTWRIGHT and LINDSEY MERRELL
In winter, a drift
gauzes the moment
before the kill,
the snap of mandible
cracking into marrow
of fluted bone—
home, with its sameness,
its old face we remember,
its new face that turns us
into apparition.
Africa
I come home to walk the dog,
leashed, into Africa.
Gazelles next to engine blocks,
and a concrete, yellow pride
transform the yard
into attraction.
A tall-grass
apex predator
settles on its haunches
forever, covered in leaves.
We sit very still
and wait for the moment
wings stop beating,
telephoto lens in hand.
If we were Mayan,
hummingbirds would pierce
our tongues, we could burn
what I've said all wrong
to see our ancestors
in the smoke.
Crematorium
Patchwork is a story
never told in my country—
the belly, flanks, and throat,
a bill to sip the nectar,
borrowed crown,
stolen undertail, and feet.
In my neighborhood,
we rub salt into the shape
of women turning back.
We set out plastic feeders
to mimic deep cups
of blossoms and sugar.
