Bun­nies Jump Clear As Oc­to­pus A Rhyme

The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Mary Quade

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.

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