I.
The last man who touched my mother
had a jackal's face. He smiled as he sunk
his teeth like an anchor into her thigh,
tethered himself to her side. He whined
and ran with his tail between his legs,
disappeared back into a wilderness
of smoke when she finally grabbed him
by the scruff and said, Enough.
II.
The man before him had a coyote's face
and my mother let him inside the house
no matter the time of night or how much
mud he tracked in or how many carcasses
of other women he brought with him,
entrails staining my mother's floors.
Once, I slipped on the remains
of a woman's heart. I couldn't scrub
the scent of loss from my skin
for the life of me; everything
smelled like blood and rotting
flesh for weeks.
III.
My father wore the face of a fox to bed.
My mother liked to keep him close. All night,
she stroked his fur while he dreamed
the dream of smaller prey. By morning,
he was gone, his warmth a memory.
He left her a fresh kill at the foot of the bed
he called a daughter. He never came back
to finish her off.