by Joanne Lowery

Lying in a row on the museum table
the pelts of badger, coyote, fox and mink
pose. Plus shriveled feet.
On the fox, black whiskers.
On me, wrinkles and wisps
still stuffed with meat
still stretched on bone.
No sign says not to touch
but I feel forbidden.
This gray hand—surely
they would feel my question.
**

Joanne Lowery’s poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Birmingham Poetry Review, Rattle, Slant, Cottonwood, and Poetry East. She lives in Michigan.