The Things I've Murdered

Last summer when I shredded

a baby rabbit in the hurricane blades

of my lawn mower, I spent a week

consumed by screams and blood rivers

 

in my dreams. I watched it flail

through the bright sky, shooting

red like a fireworks display,

so close to flight as its heart fell out.

 

After that it just felt so easy:

I took an axe to the cherry tree,

hacking away at its slender grooves

and flimsy brown leaflets, crushing

 

a few shriveled fruits along the way.

Next I dug up the roots, dismantling

the earthen apparatus piece by piece,

slicing its barren layers with a new vigor.

 

It was only natural to slay the sunrise

in my heart then, rising at noon each

day thereafter, staring out at bubbles and

Siberian huskies lounging beneath pomegranate

 

trees in the neighbor’s yard, hearing them

yap at the falling drizzle. I couldn’t help

staying up with the stars, my red eyes

shooting blanks at the falling moon.

 

And as if that weren’t enough,

I made a habit of sneaking into

my sister’s room when she took her

afternoon naps, where I would promptly

 

snuff out the rose scented candle

by her bed, pinch the flame between two

fingers and watch the smoke twist into the

wispy outline of so many little rabbits.