Because I feel with my arms, see with my feet,
grow back the damaged parts of me
I am both metaphor
and symbol:
Mary Star of the Sea, Venus, Isis,
an oceanic constellation.
Look closely at my five arms. Do you see
how they scour the seascape for prey? How each one is sensor and actuator?
My hunger an invasive wrecking ball, annihilator
of coral reefs, exterminator of the smooth handfish.
You think regeneration can bring back
all I have destroyed.
I am without blood, brains. Not goddess. Not astral body.
My ten thousand undulating tube feet feel for you.
Your kitschy sea star décor
makes me spit out my stomach.
I’ve been called—
trickster
vixen man-eater
shape shifter (even the adorable Vulpix
becomes something with nine-tails).
I’ve been mis-gendered
called she/her
until I ransack the chicken coop slay
too many to carry to cache
and then I’m a he/him a dog-fox.
How do I grieve? By leaving the rabbits alone.
By killing to kill.
If I cross your path it’s considered: good luck bad luck
a sign from the dead a threat a wake-up call
a divine message
as if
my coats of silver and fire my delicate face
the perfect way my slender body slips beneath the wire
and into the coop
could portend your fate.
I predate the Ice Age
was once
messenger to the gods
a symbol of longevity now
pest, tick host, yard eater, victim
of suburban sprawl.
Grazing on azaleas, rhododendron
beside your condo complex
I startle you offer
no tail flick, no white flag
my ancient facial glands (one beside each doe eye)
pumping out pheromones
to mark, claim space—
