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julie-d-johnsonPoems
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
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Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
11/30 Attila the Bun
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
julie-d-johnson
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julie-d-johnson
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
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