She chopped her hair at the chin,
styled it wild like cuts on the men

she out-drew. Her language grew
from the sounds of animals she knew

in childhood. Like so: ass begins with A, blackbird
with B. Later on, real hoof prints smeared

the floors of her home, which she filled with goats
and chickens, canaries and quail. Their molts

warded off guests, society's mess. In everything,
there was fur, left for her like little winks

atop buttons of paint she'd spill
while staring too long into sheep's eyes, obsidian wells,

or after sinking her palms into their matted wool.
In everything she knew, there was a soul.