Yesterday my dog dropped
half a rabbit in the yard.
The back half. A ribbon
of pink flesh peeked out
where the fur split, satin
hem of a costume.
I looked around for the head,
dead eyes, forepaws,
while my teenage boys
came through, true to form,
with a funereal rendition of
Do Your Ears Hang Low?
They saw me emerge from the garage
with a snow shovel in July
to scoop up the furry meat,
walk a few feet past the pool,
and fling it over the deer fence,
back to wilderness.
I watched it thump the grass
beyond, confused. Had I felt
a little splatter on my face?
I should have showed the boys
my curiosity about half a body,
its history cut short by hunger,
the indifference of the dog,
his chore complete. I didn’t know
what blessing to offer. I hoped
the coyotes would appreciate the feast
that night, under the almost empty
dinner plate of light.
Thank God it’s hung too high
to reveal a father’s shortcomings
in any great detail.
We may live to see those
in the morning, bared
like teeth.