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Shagufta Mulla
Animal Grief/Grief Animal

Almost every unraveled racoon, opossum, and deer
affects me more than when my own mother
died. But animals have always made me a home.
Full of family holes, I am nest and nested.
I even find my shapeshifting forms
in the sky. Salmon swimming. Rabbit
leaping. Roadrunner running. Canine skull,
made of cotton clouds. I climb in through dissolving
fins, through womb-less belly and wings, through empty
ocular orbits—pull up shroud-white sheets. Skip
therapy. Maybe it’s partly career trauma.
Put to sleep sounds like I tucked pets into bed—
sounds like I’ll see you in the morning.
Maybe I will. The other day,
there was a guardrail—dented, doing its job—
awkwardly curled around a doe. I still wonder
if there’s a fawn somewhere, growing
cold—hiccup-crying in a fetal ball—
try-trying to stay safe—quiet—her hunger
painfully pressing against her flesh

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