My mother was born the year of the rabbit,
and this April my house has become a warren 
of cottontails. On Thursday, they scamper 
in backyard clover, spooked by my sneakered steps 
in the twinkling dusk, taking out the week’s trash: 
empty egg cartons, chicken gizzards, contraband 
Milky Way wrappers. Let me speak clear––
backyard means a dozen squared feet, littered
with broken things: terra cotta pots, shoelace dreams 
bunny looped like my brother’s Adidas Hoops, 
and the rocket launch pad of a rusty trampoline. 
We lay on the unbounced top to watch stars puncture 
the black of night, while bunnies seek shelter 
underneath. Among weeds, wishes, and knocked over 
watering cans they lurk, noses sniffling, then scatter 
when my mother shouts “Soup’s ready!” 
We, soft prey of sorrow and salt, scurry 
to her side. We serve each other, paws pressed 
around ladles, long ears draping to the floor. 
The rabbits have taught me 
how to live on the dead 
end street, to love inside 
the rot, to look up and gaze 
upon pinpricks of light.