TROPHIES

he stuffed me
with torn weather maps,
resin,
the molars of birds.

hung me up
in the hall between his
great-grandfather's saber
and a deer
with lipstick on its antlers.

I rot pretty, he says.
like a museum
of collapsed lungs.

my mouth,
wired in permanent
awe.
my breastbone
still hot from
his gloved revisions.

I am not allowed to blink
but I see.

they bring their sons
to point.
this one, they say,
used to speak.