Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • We walk human and in love.
    The mammal room is dark,
    it smells of meat.

    I’m tickled; a plasticine tongue
    between tiger incisors,
    many types of hummingbirds
    pinned in flight,
    a jarring crack divides
    the leather of a rhino’s neck,
    and you, camel eyes,
    heavy lids and long lashes,
    pointing out the seams.

    Whales, you tell me
    are conscious of their breath.
    They breathe voluntarily
    and rest partially.
    If they sleep fully
    they drown.

    The cows squirt milk
    the texture of toothpaste.
    They grieve, and sing, and scheme.

    I look up.
    Strung from ceiling rigs
    hangs a mangy baleen
    made to capture
    krill; the tiniest things.
    It’s too big.

    Amidst the schismatic
    mammalian spectacle,
    you hold my hand and listen
    when I babble that I’d rather
    be of another substance,

    subhuman, flat and thin, new
    matter, stretching far
    over barren Utah rock,
    hugging porous stone,
    invading each crevice,
    but tenderly, unified,

    and, by its own volition,
    I’d like the rock
    to hug me back.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.