With the sound of sirens screaming outside,
ten knocks on the door, the shout of authority
flooding in from the red steel,
would Joe American give up Anne Frank
hiding in the attic among his dusty relics,
the crawl space shared with a family of rats,
living under the loose floorboards among
the stacks of hidden zombie apocalypse cash?

What if Jane American found Anna Franco
shuddering with her dos hermanos, madre, padre,
in the dark corners of her garage?

Would she give them 2 vests, 3 pair of pants,
two pair of stockings, a dress skirt,
jacket, shorts, lace up shoes,
wool cap, and scarf?

What if her daughter Sarah saw a black hijab Anah
patiently hidden in the foliage of their old oak tree?
Would she gift her her favorite blue fountain pen?

Would she embrace her, or if ordered,
break the neck of her rabbit?

‘rabbit hearted’, my friends say.
they nod, all agree.
my muscle, they know, beats fast,
thud thud thud against its small cage
whenever i’m about to do
something incredibly stupid
that will put everyone in sticky situations.
‘sticky’, they say, ‘is a funny word’,
as my shoes are, they laugh,
‘glued like bubblegum to trouble’.
my old shoes, i stare at them and hum,
have seen a lot of bubblegum,
that much is true.
and my friends, they’re *******,
they smile bright at me, they cackle and sing.
‘don’t you think’, they joke like they always do,
‘that your head is the troubling part?’
so i sigh, and ask why like i always do.
they say, ‘your head comes with malfunctioning brakes, mate.’
so i think, maybe, rabbit hearted as i might be, the impossible chimera that ignites my every move must be a lion, or something that roars just as loud, with no shoes at all.
but in the end, all i say is ‘i can’t drive anyway’.
at least my friends laugh.

large grey rabbit
in calm deep brush
twang of arrow

little brown rabbit
in a field of coyotes-
hoppy survivor