On the way to your studio, a Cooper’s hawk

dove in front of me. It left clutching yellow leaves

and not a single sparrow. I knew then,

somehow, that I would never take my own life.

And I knew it when I sat still

before your easel and watched you

holding your sighting stick to measure

my trunk. Occasionally, you pressed fingers

against my legs and hips, bluntly

but with care. You are learning

about the body and its trappings.

You’ve referred to my clavicle as a bony

landmark. There are so many ways to speak

about the body. There is a mundane history

of people telling their god, If you’d asked me

if I wanted to come here, I would have said no.

When I was your age, I entered the woods

with my hurt and sat against a tree and was

surrounded by deer that paid me no mind.

Their feet made no noise. They had no scent,

no color. You’ve painted my hair across my back

as fire. You’ve painted my face in mourning

and didn’t know. Sometimes I’m filled with fear

at the thought of seeing this through,

like I was that day in the woods, when all I wanted

was to lie like a dropped antler on the forest floor.

Still, today I’m thrilled to be shown

the muscles of my own back, drawn in charcoal.

The bones of my pelvis seem larger than my hips,

warmed over with skin. We’ve a history

of telling our gods, If you asked me if I wanted to leave here

I would say no. Done with your work, we walk

to the diner for pancakes. You have a smudge

of yolk-colored pigment under your nose,

another ashy stain near your right ear. The machine

of my body is humming. There is a record

of my body, resting on your easel. It is static, almost.

I saw the Cooper’s hawk leave the ground with nothing,

and carry it into the air. The nothing he carried

was yellow. It was the most beautiful thing.