Lisa J. Cihlar
Holding Babies
The young man who does yard work for me
carries a baby rabbit cupped in both hands.
It is dead although there is no blood, just a little
bubble of moisture on its nose. The boy cries
because he ran it over with the John Deere
lawn tractor. Saw a scattering of small forms
ahead of him, but there was no time to stop.
This one is cooling now, its head lolls as I take it,
run a finger down the soft gray-brown fur
and over the tiny, pink veined ears.
If I was alone I would wrap it in a paper towel,
put it in the trash to be picked-up Monday morning,
think nothing more about it. Go back to pulling
weeds from among the new tomato plants.
Even glad that there is one less menace
to the lettuces, beginning to make a good show.
But this boy needs a ritual. I find some silky fabric
in a drawer, bought for a quilt I will never
make. And a ribbon. This accidental death
calls for ribbon.
I hold the pretty package as he digs a shallow
hole in the sandy soil under arch of wild
blackberry canes. The red cloth and yellow bow
shine in the shaded grave until it is lost in dirt
and covered by the slab of sod. Are there words
that need to be muttered over the spot? I look
at him, he looks at me, then he crossed himself,
though I know he is not Catholic. It is enough.
Back to lawn work, he slips in his ear-buds,
turns the Christian Rock a little louder,
begins riding in ever tightening circles again.
Lisa J. Cihlar has poems popping up all over the web. Just Google her name if you want to
read some. The most interesting thing about Lisa is that she once took first place in a
stand-up comedy contest. If she wrote jokes instead of poetry, she would probably make
more money, but the hotel bar circuit would get old fast she thinks. So poetry it is.
Home
Issue Four
Holding Babies
The young man who does yard work for me
carries a baby rabbit cupped in both hands.
It is dead although there is no blood, just a little
bubble of moisture on its nose. The boy cries
because he ran it over with the John Deere
lawn tractor. Saw a scattering of small forms
ahead of him, but there was no time to stop.
This one is cooling now, its head lolls as I take it,
run a finger down the soft gray-brown fur
and over the tiny, pink veined ears.
If I was alone I would wrap it in a paper towel,
put it in the trash to be picked-up Monday morning,
think nothing more about it. Go back to pulling
weeds from among the new tomato plants.
Even glad that there is one less menace
to the lettuces, beginning to make a good show.
But this boy needs a ritual. I find some silky fabric
in a drawer, bought for a quilt I will never
make. And a ribbon. This accidental death
calls for ribbon.
I hold the pretty package as he digs a shallow
hole in the sandy soil under arch of wild
blackberry canes. The red cloth and yellow bow
shine in the shaded grave until it is lost in dirt
and covered by the slab of sod. Are there words
that need to be muttered over the spot? I look
at him, he looks at me, then he crossed himself,
though I know he is not Catholic. It is enough.
Back to lawn work, he slips in his ear-buds,
turns the Christian Rock a little louder,
begins riding in ever tightening circles again.
Lisa J. Cihlar has poems popping up all over the web. Just Google her name if you want to
read some. The most interesting thing about Lisa is that she once took first place in a
stand-up comedy contest. If she wrote jokes instead of poetry, she would probably make
more money, but the hotel bar circuit would get old fast she thinks. So poetry it is.
Home
Issue Four
All rights reserved.
Chickenpinata
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| issue four |
All rights reserved.
