In spring, the ones the cats don’t eat
get squished and dried, they become paper
versions of themselves- the outline of a frog,
frozen by headlights.
They take on the shape of a biology tray,
for every frog is a dead frog, its stomach opened
for me. I learned the heart’s chambers,
how blood pushed from one arm
to the other, the smell of pig’s liver
preserved by formaldehyde.
Paul kept the cow’s eye- cerulean retina –
wrapped in a tissue, stuffed in his pocket.
Sheep’s heart, brain.
Inchworm, a fetal pig that came
from a bucket- extra points for identifying a deformation,
correctly declaring the sex.
The small things we killed
without meaning to: a captured lady bug
that beat herself to death; when I found her again,
all that remained was a blur of blood
and wings. The light flicked on, the moth
that died yearning against the glass.