Their soft fur – moon white, black as a dark
night, or the grizzled grey of flecked slate –
was not made for stillness or the puppet
motion of stolen sleekness draped over
human bones. Do not be surprised if
the weight of absent flesh rests heavily
on the wearer’s shoulders or the skin
beneath starts to stink of rotten meat.
Death lingers in the shadowed fur.
Wild lives cannot be worn with grace
by those with no right to their beauty.