There are rabbits in the corners of our yards,
sweet, fidgety marginalia ready to bolt
away from you the moment you step near
as though you whispered the words of god.

They will never understand prayers of comfort
or welcome. Rabbits live in the world below,
the warrens and hollows and empty spaces
you’ve tried and failed to eradicate.

They only appear before you in order
to survive. It’s not as though they love
you, your careless, thundering steps. Not as though
they’ll bring you gifts of blood and light.

Rabbits don’t worship the unknown.
They don’t say prayers, though they fold
into familiar attitudes. They don’t reflect
anything of you in their small and humble lives.

They only appear before you in the smallest
matters of obsequience to your garden,
the so, so many things they need there
which you leave to rot, untouched.