Rabbit Heart Season
This winter we wear frost on our ribs.
Ell uses her soft voice, speaks only to the sparrows.
I pull nests from beneath my fingernails,
drink rain water with cinnamon and try to pretend
it feels like Christmas,
pretend her collarbones aren’t knives beneath
the skin of her neck.
Ma brought the gun into the woods,
came back with two rabbits
and blood smeared fingers.
Ell took her knives, gutted them like fish
and put the skins on the wall to dry,
said they felt like the carpet we burnt last November,
said soon we will wear the furs,
rabbit hearts caught up in our chest like thunder,
frost still decaying on the front porch.