by Holly Day
the dog finds the man first, sniffs confused
at the pool of blood by his hand. in its mythology
this man is always upright, noisy, exuding clouds of purple tobacco smoke
never still and quiet. the death of this man
does not fit into the dog’s cosmology
is a crushing blow to its faith.
later, birds find the man, tiny sparrows
drawn to the clouds of nits and flies
already building great fortresses in his blood-caked hair
claiming him for various
insect kingdoms. crows settle, chase sparrows away
flick aside the audacious flies, their arraying, wiggling young
dig past the layer of dried flesh and blood
find rapture in fresh meat.