And for every time I touch a bird, I get the teeth they would’ve had in another world. One might wonder how there’s room in my mouth, but my mouth has been growing and I imagine my whole body might be mouth near the end. Because I can’t stop hunting. And at one point I even figured I don’t need a gun. I have this mouth.

I used to feel the guilt, as if everything in my apartment were made of birdwing; I used to mourn the detergent cartridge on my laundry machine, because I felt I was just pulling on one, and so like a monster. One without any wings, obviously.

But pressing down on a wing, or in a wing, after all—I think, isn’t that just like making it fly?

🪶🦷