"Year of the Hare" by Maureen Alsop
Year of the Hare
In my dream I dreamt of killing
the year that caused pain. Wasn’t it
the Year of the Rabbit. Faraway,
bitterns face evening. The dead pass again
through corridors — breastbone
and meal, crimson sprouts of rye, the murmuring
above their shoulders echoes
in the frog’s twilight wilt. Somewhere
between creek and willow. Your face
being fresh among them. I imagine
entering the merciless snow, a space north of freezing, the ambient-deep —
I imagine entering my owner’s body, as if
following trail markers, reading briefly a paragraph in a manual, then allowing
darkness to settle otherwise.
Perhaps
there are two ways to bury a hare. Usually
so little caution is spoken. Hungry
stars converge under whatever leaf, in whatever
version of tree. Perhaps the strewn canopy of some prickly oak,
the lesser buds of the tree, a thousand
quivering whiskers of feral cat; radiant
as another shade hedges toward me, stillness all through the grass . . .
I dig a hole where a live rabbit might go in — stupid
bunny scrambling year disappearing under shovelfuls of dirt
or hit on the head, half conscious, either way I go on digging
until we are a bridge. Revelling the luck of a new hour, underbrush —
signals of air flattening all sound.
Photo Credit: Staff