The Rabbit's Dead
by Tess Crescini
When she first heard the news, words stuck
like an apple propping open a roasted pig's mouth.
She walked around, no particular destination,
arrived at the corner of Story and King,
East San Jose,
waiting for a stray bullet, hoping to not decide.
But the streets only contained men looking
for five-dollar-an-hour jobs, any work will do.
She headed home deciding, thinking of how this one
will not have to go through the birth canal,
will not force its way head-first through her tiny channel,
the pressure of her walls on its head, elongating its face.
No, this one will be spared:
no naps together, no letters
later blaming her for ills suffered.
It will not be lured like Icarus.
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