If My Love For You Were an Animal

It would have three legs left, but only need two.

It would be easy to catch, but hard to kill.

It could hold its breath all winter and sleep upside down, anchored under the ice in
kelp.

When wet, it would smell like clarinet reeds.

It would break every thing in the house—but purposely, silently, secretly, one item at
a time, over hundreds of years, so no one would notice.

Its cry, like an electrical tower wrestling a giant tinfoil dolphin in a meteor crater; its
purr, low enough to drive snakes from their dens.

It would be flightless, but you could always find it hiding up high.

Its name would mean magnet. Ants would march towards it over mountains, and
across the sea floor.

You could elbow it as hard as you wanted to right in the ribs.

It would be so loyal, if you fell asleep before you took the sleeping pill, it would slip
the sleeping pill under your tongue.