The First Father-Murdered Rabbit

The smell of the rabbit’s blood in the back of my father’s
chevy from over fifty years ago
            comes back to me today,
out of a tunnel of some kind
is the best I can do
            to explain what I mean. The smell of the rabbit’s blood
had been inside of me all along; (I am most alive
inside of words, and most safe in their aisles of fancy.)

           That boy didn’t have to see the rabbit, pearl of blood
at the tip of its nose,
but he did, and he didn’t have to help skin the rabbit,
            but he did that too, at his father’s aide.
            You don’t know at the time
just what it is that you’re getting yourself into;
            just what doors
you may open, and then never come back.

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