I was in the kitchen,
ruining the oatmeal.
It bubbled blind beneath a milk caul –
Rancid cheese, fizzing in an unction of olive oil.
That tiny jar stunk up the whole house.
A cadaver smell, but not until hours later.
Hours after I deposited
your pliant body in the copse.
Milk. Cheese. Death.
I, too, exhale rot.
Seven years, seven painful springs.
It was one thing, repeated.
A week before Easter, my sleek Doberman brought me a bunny
with velveteen ovals for ears and an eye cauled with vacancy.
Oh, little wonder, you were too soft!
Your head hung off the shovel
like a silly looker – but completely at peace?
Maybe you were.
Marvel and gawk!
I was spraddled in the dentist’s sloping chair,
opened wide for the scalpel.
He cut out the infection.
He drilled out the disease.
My numb head hung.
The soup of my own death-breath fizzed –
and the taste?
He ran his decayed tongue
over his teeth on the day he rose.
Rabbit, I am not rabbit enough
to out-rabbit you –
whose life was bright,
whose flight was wordless,
whose surrender, true,
who’s nonetheless less.