The Melancholy of Mechagirl

Once I skulked snoutwise through scrap-iron forests,

And to each man with his silver pail scowled:

You are not beautiful enough

to make me human.

I had a fox’s education:

rich coffee grounds in every house gutter,

mice whose bones were sweet to suck,

stolen bread and rainwater on whiskers:

slow theogonies of bottle caps and house cats.

I crouched, the color of rusted stairs,

and to each boy who chased me

through rotted wheat laughed:

You are not beautiful enough

to turn my tail to feet!

But this is a story,

and in a story

there is always someone

beautiful enough.

In a wood I found you

in the classical way,

a girl in a dress with a high hem,

ribbons in her teeth,

honey on her thumbs.

(Damn all of you. All your red hair

just enough like fur,

Damn all your small mouth,

your damp smell,

Damn all your pianos and stitching hoops.

Had I but paws enough to stamp out

your every spoken word like snow!)