I left you a note written in ink milked
from the distended bellies of spiders.
Tied it with a scrap of red ribbon silk.
Drying out eight needle-like legs, quiet-
ly I pinned your pale songbird against the
maroon wall, taking care to pierce each wing
joint. It hung, your tiny Christ, still above
my piece of parchment, one glossy eye fixed
on your approach. I was wrong. Poor lovely
caged creature, it had no fault between you
and me. I should have taken your soft wrist
between my teeth, running my tongue up through
your pulse. Taken everything but the song
from the bird’s throat; destroyed where you belong.