by Jilly Dreadful

My mother slaughters rabbits.

My mother breaks their necks and spines,

Feels life slip between fingertips.

She played piano when she was young.

Such sturdy fingers.

An apron she wears to stave off blood.

Not that rabbits always bleed,

When she cripples them as they still breathe.

“But sometimes,” she said, “spine snags skin.”

Their mammalian hearts, so used to beating.

I had a fondness for rabbits.

Their soft fur and wet eyes.

The unexpected presence of claws.

“Blood is surprisingly thick in rabbits,”

My mother says.

by Jilly Dreadful

January 12, 2011 | Posted in: Fiction | Comments Closed

Comments are closed.