【by Gemma Feltovich】

this was when the air was so dry
the leaves were unsaturated and frail
but the sky was just as endless as ever,
an unreachable pool of water.

she disappeared over the ridge of the mountain,
and when i caught up she was standing
over the skeleton like a conquistador,
gnawing on a femur.

there were clumps of skin and fur clinging
to the bone, speckled with dried mud.

the sky cracked itself open like a pomegranate.
the seeds fell as rain.

the wrongness of a dying animal is that
it allows you to approach—

you may watch the herds of elk that roam the valley
from a distance. they are perfectly formed, majestic,
remote. that kind of royal creature shouldn’t
decay so easily.

a few months before she died, i flew out
to visit my baba. she was fragile, up close.
i was afraid to touch her, convinced
her paper skin would peel from her bones.

a healthy animal is always in motion. it’s the stillness that unsettles.