It sits on my desk, looking back at me.
Found amidst moss and wild garlic,
the bone wears a light shade of green
beneath the eye and stains a cheek.
It’s a stoat, I think, or a pine marten.
Small. Fit for my palm. Half the jaw gone,
the nose cavity jagged. One fang remains,
perhaps the same that tore a hole
in the neck of the kitten we rescued,
not far from where I found the skull.
The wound closed itself quickly,
and left a scar hidden beneath her fur.
The two both occupy this room.
Life and death here and there.
The cat sleeps beneath the radiator.
The cold skull gives a cold hard stare.