Rabbit

1

Same as you, Claude says, creature of habit,

travelling the same narrow path worn

slick, through broomsedge and scrub pines.

To hear him tell it, the hotel in town

still stands, wants to buy every rabbit

you have for a quarter a piece, the meat

lean and dark, cleaned and ready to be

cut up for the frying pan. So you fashion

a trap—you’ll need 10 of them for 50

acres from whatever scraps of wood

and wire you can scrounge from around

the place—and nail it long and narrow, set it

to face the path. Same as you—for an apple

core—same as you, he’ll come around.

2

You go around with a lantern every

morning before light; right away you

know you’ve got one by the little door

being shut. You reach in and grab it quick

by the hind legs; that’s where the strength is.

You know the way you would a newborn

to smack it alive? Hold it tight and upside down.

Sometimes one dies from the fear, saving you

the trouble, but in any case, all it

ever takes is this—quickest clip with the edge

of your hand, see, right here behind the neck.

You can skin it easy with your fingers;

it’s slick—he leans over, slips the sock off

your foot—as this.