So I’m thinking about fakes, skinning them
like a dead animal then construct some
papier mache and glueing back on the skin,
the glass eyes, color lips and eyelids,
finish off nose in oil paint, linseed
What? So I’m in the house of taxidermy
and looking at an armature of some bird
or could it be a weasel? A beaver?
Whatever. It’s all barren solitude.
A place of calamity, museum-like.
Natural history, you might call it.
Ever thought you’re mortal, Tessa?
Like for a mere second but everyday?
Have you a predilection for dead
animals? Neither do I. Like them supple
and real. Darting. Slithering. Mating.
Then everything goes up in smoke.
Prompt: Writing is about the imagination. Which is enormous. Einstein said it and he’s one smart alec. He said, “Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.” And those coming attractions cannot be dead, I may add. There is no joy in dead animals. Nope. Nah. Nada. So can you write a poem addressing dead animals? Soliloquize like Hamlet upon a skull.