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  • most wives wouldn't appreciate a head
    even so well delivered in this plastic bag,
    body already a portion for foxes.
    most wives aren't hot for bones,
    but even the word bone turns me on.
    I imagine the look on the next wife's face
    when you turn up with the dogs
    and a snake rescued from under a tire
    dead crow preserved by snow
    common flicker—in the freezer
    for decades beside the hunk of wedding cake
    for under the pillow on our first anniversary.
    it's been thirty years of vacated turtle shells
    skulls of rats and deer, spikes and rattles
    thirty years of bones and teeth and feathers
    dining room centerpieces, show and tell
    and now the stench of decapitated 'coon—
    skull mashed, teeth gnashed, permanent snarl—
    hangs over us like ritual incense
    and I am rabid for your animal love.
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