By Claire Keneally
My rabbit Ginger was
wild
when I found her,
one eyed,
in the yard behind my
piano teacher’s house.
She came home,
stitched,
to slide on the staccato tiles
beneath my father’s bed where
she played until one day,
Ginger and I found women with
long hair,
and short hair, as short as Ginger’s,
and no hair, like me.
They hid, under covers,
between two covers, their pink,
swollen lips scared me
and so I ran to the end of the
cul-de-sac
sat with Ginger,
stroked her fur,
longed for mine,
and pondered theirs.
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