Savannah Cooper​

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Small Holes

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Every picture in my house is slowly

turning crooked. A subtle angle. Lightly,

I tip them back, course-correct, and come

home each evening to find each crooked

again. Maybe it’s the house, sitting

at a slant, gently sinking.

 

The rabbits have dug holes

all over the backyard, hidden

their naked newborns under tufts

of dead grass and patches of fur.

 

The dog found them before I did,

and I’ve put two back, folding

their frail, gray forms in a towel.

Small bloody marks on each neck,

too small to kill. I watched them

burrow blindly back into the earth.

 

Their squeaks felt familiar, weak

and plaintive, inches from death.

The dog didn’t understand my anger,

my soft heart. They were toys to her,

wiggling dolls. The natural order

of things. Her teeth are sharper,

her body stronger. She doesn’t hear

in their squeaks an echo of her own heart.

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