Inspired by a poem from Sara Marshall:

Adaptations

At the museum
one taxidermy lynx
perched on staged logs
ensnared me in its still
glass eyes, tall posture to

pounce.

I remembered being astounded once
by the disproportionate
length of their legs
in one of those poacher photographs
Bloodied lynx collapsed, hollowed
like empty Halloween costumes
across crude blue tarps -

their adaptations for
predation, their adaptation
for survival one in the same
a learned body,

a body learned to jump.

and for no reason,
there I was in my mind, bundled:
a coonskin cap, chicken wire box,
a drape of hare’s meat to tease you,
to cheaply trap you by your blood’s vices,
to contain your long legs when,
of course,

I’d love to say

I’ve let you loose, that I’d
let you pounce another
hundred times out of me
like that wild animal into
another world to be alone

though I’m afraid my body
also learned some things
it’s not so proud of.

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