I eat the tendons

before I eat the bones

to feel a snap

somewhere in me

like mother used to say

like the slotting of brain

(amygdala? hippocampus?)

into brain

(thalamus? striatum?)

like how the waves wash the coast

and the shells cut my heel

all that red on such a smell stretch

of rock

while my hands twitch

(serotonin? dopamine?)

for something to hold

if I were to write my name

how might I spell it?

how heavy

would the letters be?

mother used to wrap our hair in poetry

and I would read the patterns

her tears formed

on the papyrus

all my feathers slotting against the slits

in these stones

molting season again

maybe I will write a story today

maybe I will be able to

or maybe I will remember hunger

(norepinephrine? oxytocin?)

and sing a song for the sailors

all the same when night comes

I am no artist

I watch chunks of meat

strewn about the shore.