The times I feel inspired to write poetry are few and far between these days. After I saw a dead rabbit on the side of the road (well, from what little I could see of its features, it looked like a rabbit), I got the urge to write this poem.
I opened a window into your world,
saw you lying down,
one tear on your cheek,
one hand on your belly,
as if you regretted
everything that had ever gone inside of it.
You had pretty little drunken eyes
I held you in high, high, high
but when you squirmed and fell,
you became a useless broken thing.
So I wouldn’t need to break you.
You already were
a mangled corpse
splayed on the roadside.
Fur that once gleamed with life
now gleamed with blood.
Bones spewed marrow,
stuck out of flesh like splinters.
Your rabbit heart
had broken from incessant, fearful pounding.
You were a girl
who would record the sound
of her own heartbeat
to convince herself
she was still alive,
when all that time you felt dead,
an animal on the road,
plucked apart by vultures.
Did your daddy ever hug you,
tell you he was proud?