sinew might resemble bark might resemble
knotted thread, all windswept and lit
by mist
you can know a grab's intent
by the taut of it's forearm:
smile or grimace
a jackal does not
reveal these things. it's the tone of flesh
clinging to bone, the way it hurts in my teeth
the unstitching of a leather bracelet
the braiding of our hair
a moth's wings against my gristle cheek
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