Feral Dead in the Suburbs

In the morning I passed a dead rabbit in the street.  It was stretched on its side close to the curb, unblemished, as if it were sleeping. I think it must almost have escaped.  In its jagged dash from lawn to lawn, the rabbit was clipped by the bumper of someone’s car, so that it slid to rest stunned, still in its sprinting posture, still wholesome but torn inside, its side subtly heaving until, at last, it lay still.  I couldn’t see the eyes.  So pristine was it that I thought for a moment about picking it up from the asphalt and carrying it the last little distance to the next patch of grass.  But the lawns were all well manicured, and surely the owner would have pushed the corpse back into the gutter where the feral dead belong.  Soon the sweeper will bear it away.

Just a few feet from earth, that road-killed rabbit


Standing Wave

My hair trickles across her belly and she whimpers. She is embarrassed to show how her flesh swells towards me, and trusts that I will bend the bars. Fingertips dimple her thighs and start a tremor beneath pale skin. The undulation of my tongue flows into her hips, to the creak of springs. Her voice rises; her body heaves from the heels and arcs over me.

As one wave recedes,
it gathers into the height
of the wave that crests.