I was already gutted when you found me in full-
moon’s eve. I was already raw and lonely.
My face, a calavera: eye sockets and mandible,
cheek bones. My teeth exposed to the wisdoms.
I’d been drinking blues from what I hoped would be
a bottomless night. You approached with slackened ears,
sniffed with wetted nose. You kept your canines
to yourself. I bore my bony fingers into pelt, hushed
and rough, and soothed the patches at your nape.
Your eyes slit-like then. And that is what I remember
most: the obsidian in your gaze, sharper than a razor.
How you finished off the gutting like a cool stream of river.
How I began to flesh. Shape-shifter,
I’ve yet to hear the low pitch of your howl.
We were on a street called Jacarandas but in the dead
of winter I’ve forgotten how to name blossoms.