Animal Purpose. Michelle Y. Burke

to have the run

      of the overgrown field, his bit

      turning green from grassy froth,

      the remains of his reins curled

      like sunning snakes in the long grass.

      I approached him slowly, looped half

      a rein through his bridle, and led

      his thousand pounds back to the barn.

      He followed, a frayed strap

      of leather between us coordinating

      our movements, matching, momentarily,

      his animal purpose to mine.

       Not by Extraordinary Means

      There is so much material in the material world.

      We have no yard; the philodendron pots are small; we’ll bury the cat elsewhere.

      The Vikings were precise but not extraordinary

      in their cruelties. King Ælla’s ribs were broken from his spine, then pulled open

      behind his back to resemble wings.

      Little brown bats are vanishing

      like smoke from caves they’ve filled for thousands of years. It is a small thing,

      but if you don’t add eggs one at a time to cake batter, the emulsion will break,

      and the cake won’t rise.

      The Vikings—sometimes they yanked the lungs through.

      Salted them.

      No, not by extraordinary means, my mother told the doctor when pressed. He wouldn’t

      let her leave for the night. Then, in her smallest voice, But, yes, everything else, please.

       First Engagement

      There was this Sicilian place.

      You had to take the ferry

      to get there. Or we did,

      living in Brooklyn. The ferry

      was free and crowded, but we

      elbowed our way to the rail.

      Commuters sat inside, drank

      beer from the concession stand,

      and read the daily news.

      We’d gotten engaged,

      but we’d call it off soon.

      At the Sicilian place,

      a woman sat beside us

      and ordered every appetizer

      on the menu. She told us her cat

      was dying. Baby, Baby is dying.

      Later that night, we argued

      by the B61. The word marriage

      hung in the air like an obscenity.

      Nevertheless, I remember staring

      into backlit windows,

      imagining life unrolling

      as smoothly as the stocking

      over an actress’s leg.

      At home, I told our cat

      she’d live forever. You said,

      Don’t give her false hope,

      then took your fatalism

      to bed. That was the summer

      your mother worsened.

      Once, toward the end,

      she told me to eat the dahlias

      before leaving. Whenever

      I’m served a salad with flowers—

      nasturtiums or marigolds—

      I think of that and how

      I would have eaten the dahlias