In the asylum they shave off my fur

so they can electric me.

When I mew they show me a clump

of blond in a flat palm and I say

I am pedigree I am snow fox I am Siamese.

At night the janitor creeps into the ward

where I sleep without blankets – tells me

I should be on all fours. I used to lie

in a man’s lap, my belly rising and falling

like a swelling tide, my pink tips like

tiny gems. I’d try to sew myself

on him – my claws, glinting stitches.

When my warmth sent him under

I’d creep back out into the dusk,

bring back bloodied gifts

that I ripped down from the sky.

I brought a rat once, its entrails ribboning.

They say I have a severed self –

as if to love the warmth

of a soft cushioned room

and the spiky and musky dark equally

were an aberration. In the asylum

we are given cold meats.

I do not hunt because I am hungry.

He hit me when I brought the first mouse,

kicked me for the blackbird.

It’s not out of love

that I lay these trophies at his feet,

but I let him think so.