There is a dead rabbit in my garden
This isn’t a metaphor
There is a dead rabbit in my garden

I put it there myself,
I didn’t do the killing, just the commandeering

I rode past it on my bike in September
There was frost on the ground
And in its fur
Matted from the performance of death

On my ride home the world had melted
But rigor had set in like ice
I scooped up the morsel in a Subway bag

I watched for months
As the body decomposed through chemistry
Rather than biology
Enzymes were at work, not insects

The bunny still rests beneath clover
But it is a black cave now
With walls made of bone

With the sun came scavengers
Though only a thin layer of meat remains
Just enough for the fur to cling to
There are flies
So full
They walk