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Little Rabbit

ISSUE:  Winter 2021

Some mornings, I come to on the floor,
my neck burned with moon tracks

or fingerprints, my tongue swollen
and split through, as if by an arrow

though it could’ve been my teeth,
or yours—I can almost feel the memory

trembling in me like milk in a pail,
or my throat when I’m scared to speak,

so you speak for me—and I don’t know  
how I came to be this skittish creature,

shaking beneath your shadow, begging you 
to hold my wrist, hold it tight against

the floor, and kiss my palm closed, tell me 
I’m here, tell me I’m good, or good

enough, that the blood on your teeth 
isn’t mine, and if so, that I taste clean,

like sap tapped from an underwater forest, 
from an epoch when the Earth was only

ocean, and the only sound the wind 
moaning across it—or is it a song?

Is it a name you gave me, still rippling 
across my body from your mouth.

Is that what’s written in moon on my throat. 
Or is it your name. Are those your hands

pressing hard against the bones of my neck. 
Do you dream of that crack, as I do,

like lightning through a dark room,
the puzzle box of my skull opening wide.

And what do you see inside.
What walks toward you in that light.

Is it gentle. Is it good.
Tell me.


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