Davis Rabbits

Rebecca Fransway    

We are serious animals
who in the springtime
come up from holes
with charms attached to our bodies.
We strap ourselves into tiny cars
or beneath foam bike helmets.
With chains of keys
we lock the dead bolt.

Behind the university
we sit beneath prefabricated umbrellas
and push benign vegetables
about recycled plates.
From glass bottles to cups
we drink water we hope is holy.

Sometimes we are disconcerted
by a chewed-up heart
dropped from the bare mouth
of a woman who is secretly crazy.
God will drift by,
listen awhile.
None of us want him around
because we think he is a man.

We fear the embarrassment involved
that he will make us cry
want to dry his feet
with our expensive permanents.
That we might become hungry for pig's eyes
and be swept into an impossible childhood.