Emily Leithauser Boston Arboretum A baby hawk—
the nib of its beak pink—
picks at rabbit gut.
Ribboned innards,dropped in flight,
lie further down the path;
I wipe my shoes on grass.
The only sounds:the pluck on strings
of tripe, the ragged catch
of air in someone's throat.
(Watch how the birdscreens its prey
with a wing, and leaves the fur
alone, dear, and abstains
from openingthe cooling back.)
Even now your throat's
a thrill; your body's still
unknown to me.