the baby bunny My father is digging a grave.Night fast rises asrusted shovel meets young peat,tearing soil asunder, years compacted, in the back flowerbed—our formercompost heap.(I threw a bad egg out here last week.It had cracked in the carton.)The air is thick; mosquitoessing and prickle down my arms.I do not move, but cradle your unfeeling form,though since stilled, still warmwith quiet blood.I want you maimed—a mangled mass, unrecognizablemembers strewn in hopeless arrayacross the clover patch, red-damp—not this, so perfect,shining eyes, tiny ears and feet intact,flawless except that you are not,
Sta.sh
