Kimberly Miller, “At the Como Zoo”

Jewelling your throat,
a blood-brooch:  you crane
your neck towards the eyes
that peer.  Lodge the steel
wire inside your skin.
Your boredom’s done
something you can’t
hide.  The center
of your back:  stippled,
empty pores,
sockets for the plumes
you’ve plucked
or your fellow inmate
tugged.  Or you’ve worn
away by nudging
against earth.  If you’re deemed
livestock, and you cut
the pieces of your body,
it’s called vice.
That one has a vice.
But when the life is yours, the spacious one
you strove
to make, that fixes
you inside
the barbed walls of  your keep and you grasp
and scrape some small,
bloody part of you,
what is that.           




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