The man said he had my bone in his thigh.

I touched the smooth, curved rise in his leg.

It was hard. He was drunk; bleeding

from his head. I knew he would hurt the animals.

I was on my knees. The man drank

some more. I gathered the small rhinoceros

and the fox into the basement, closed the door.

Apollo, the dog, was crying as he crawled

through a narrow space, starving. A woman

named Denise said I had to tell someone.

I knew he would hurt the animals. I told no one

but the rabbit, who escaped through a hole.

As I bent to Apollo, I noticed my right hip

was gone, the man was upstairs, stirring

his bourbon with it. I asked for it back,

He said “it hurts to write — and not to.”

I fed Apollo my shin, the rhino, my clavicle.

I tried to offer the man my tongue

but he said it was too soft, too used.

The fox, he coveted my heart.