The Melancholy of Mechagirl

No, you laughed like sugar stirring,

your feet are too black,

your teeth are so sharp!

Can you not stand up straight

in my old dresses?

Can you not make your flesh

like mine?

Shamed, fur flamed across my cheek,

but you patted it pale with flour and sweet,

and I wept to be savage and bristle-stiff

in such a tidy place,

in such silent, clean arms.

I slept curled

at the foot of your bed,

reeking of lavender and lilac

though I spied no purple field.

I growled at moths that plagued your hair

and woke with every stairwell creak.

But you brushed back my pelt

with lullabies,

into a long braid that fell

across pillows like shoulder blades.

You showed me the word kitsune

in a book with a long ribbonmark

like blood spilled on the print—

I chewed the page and swallowed it,

and learned there only that

crawling into your arms,

embarrassed by my heat, my wet nose,