She stomps on the hole not knowing,
as she does now, that they were baby
rabbits—thinks mice, or moles, or star-nosed shrew.
The possibility of five squirming horrors
brings her foot down twice before
I reach her. Stop, Mom. Stop,
and pull at her raised arms.
They are in our garden,
bejeweled with vestments of red,
the blood looks clear, like wine.
The hole is a nest under the umbrella
of tomato and bell pepper, bits of hay.
Their eyes are glued shut, too early
to eat any of the vegetables.
I lift each body from the hole. My mother,
panic deflated, hovers in the background.
Two are dead,
I mutter. By that I mean
the blue skin around their mouths.
received her MFA from the
University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She lives in
Rochester, NY, and teaches at Nazareth College. Her
poems have appeared in Redactions: Poetry and Poetics
and on Verse Daily,
and are forthcoming in Blue Earth
and Neon Literary Journal.
collaborated with five other poets on a piece for PUSH
Physical Theatre (performed at Rochester’s Geva
Theatre in February).