I held a rabbit heart in my hand,
a tiny opera of fear, a nightmare
I can clutch.
In my hunt for you
I found it, already dead, swollen
and waiting under an apricot tree,
obsolescent, the way a sister is
uncertain stringing twine
around her brother’s wrist.
This shouldn’t hurt.
And yet what follows is trenchant:
a blooming so violent it could only be
abandonment. I want to be more
than my repetitions
but I miss you.
What kind of wound have I made
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