Every picture in my house is slowly
turning crooked. A subtle angle. Lightly,
I tip them back, course-correct, and come
home each evening to find each crooked
again. Maybe it’s the house, sitting
at a slant, gently sinking.
The rabbits have dug holes
all over the backyard, hidden
their naked newborns under tufts
of dead grass and patches of fur.
The dog found them before I did,
and I’ve put two back, folding
their frail, gray forms in a towel.
Small bloody marks on each neck,
too small to kill. I watched them
burrow blindly back into the earth.
Their squeaks felt familiar, weak
and plaintive, inches from death.
The dog didn’t understand my anger,
my soft heart. They were toys to her,
wiggling dolls. The natural order
of things. Her teeth are sharper,
her body stronger. She doesn’t hear
in their squeaks an echo of her own heart.