Immature Animals

When the blood turned pink I should’ve known,

should’ve set my quiver for meat, downed

the dandelion greens. Instead I climbed into

a pot, added salt, became a handful

of small bells. Undulated to recall myself

as sea. Underwater the siren’s cry is safe—

on land, my violet eyes undeniable. I wanted the alarm

to drown my thoughts, to spare my palms for prayer,

from reaching. I sniffed all manner of immature

animals, most, with their hard parts barely bridled,

met my eye, were willing to spill themselves.

Holding my breath after the branch snapped,

cleaning my teeth with their bones, I never thought

I’d be the hunter. What happened to the crown

I knit from bluebells, the soft waves I cultivated

in the pool of my throat. Was the bush of my belly

just a dream? In three days you’ll return with your

bluebeard and your new scent, make sounds

that seem like want with your trachea. Obedient

to the bassline, I’ll string a thin strand of  brass bells

around my ankle, watch them quiver.