The wilds are mirrorless. I’ll
share. Here’s a picture of a white wolf with her furrowed brow.
Here’s his hands on top of the game board in the summer dust.
Here are lemons. Here’s a woman turning at the sound of my
voice, caught with a cigarette in the empty streets of Venice.

None of me, never, but maybe one of you. If I may be bold, if
you want. Here’s the salt-desiccated body of a vulture sprawled
over ocean stone. Here’s an agitated chickadee. Here’s a fox
recently run over, who stained the road with organs like
stewed tomatoes. Here are all the wonderful things, and you—

there’s that protective side, some strength not so disciplined, a want
shaped like envy. To see the yellow eyes and say yes, God, yes,
anyone can die but you, I’ll give anything for you, and to hear
nothing when you turn the lens to your own face. Here’s my hand.
I’ve felt it too. And I’ve felt the end of it, just like you. The end is

not human. Wouldn’t it be meaningful to be eaten? Wouldn’t you
be so lovely, as a rock with me, growing lichen by the roaring hush
of the andasite river? Don’t you already know that the observance of
the animal, the unwritten, don’t you know, we’re not the only ones
who mourn. Nothing matters more than being someone worth mourning.

That’s why. Here’s my mother pointing south on the mountain ridge.
Here’s the sunset over the frozen ocean. Here’s the storm-broken rainbow.
As lovely as what I capture. As lovely as letting go.

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