Photo by Davies Designs on Unsplash
In the hallowed shade of basil and beneath the bower
of beans. What do you mean, to be so softly
ruinous? A puff, still as some mute memory
of illicit gnawing I’d like to forget. The dewy
after-chew of missing lettuce, the abrupt
halt of the tulip stalk, budless. I can forgive
your hunger, but not your choices. In the
straw mulch, I uncover a cuddled squirm of fur, all
eyes squinted shut against the view of my
cruel hesitation. Each ball of bunny nubbled
with ears, paws, nose. And somewhere, growing inside
jaws—teeth. You live this life acutely. Quiet and
aquiver, nibbling against the hawk, the fox, the boot,
the dog—in whose own sharp mouth you seem to sing.
