The Southern Colorado Hare is a lie.
Like the cake, it’s a promise, a try-on!
Rabbits don’t mate in the same place
they were born, don’t die nestled
in the bones of their mothers or sons;
that’s only something I said to keep
from saying we’re stuck, year over year,
in that same clearing in the woods,
another lie. Look, there’s no great herd
of hares forming circles in the forest.
I didn’t pull myself from the roots
of their boneyard up onto my mother’s
back, haven’t clung that same way
to the necks of the women I’ve loved.
It’s a joke! C’mon. It’s just kidding.
Don’t be like that. I know you wanted
to talk. Go ahead, tell me again how sad
you get. How it smothers you every few
months like it did your mother. Your heart
gasps under eczema. You find her housecoat
and wear it to bed, wear it to piss, wear it
to the corner store for Coke cans and candy.
Tell me about it again. Another fucking time.
You think it’s just you who’s caught in the loop?
She’s not dead. She’s out there too, caking,
making hares. She’s gathered you up from owl
pellets! She’s not high and sad, sick in a Walmart
parking lot, in her little orange car, the battery
dying and the last heat of her Timmies going
cold in her hands. It’s boring. It’s just talk.
Don’t think about it. Have I ever told you
about the Southern Colorado Hare? Try-on!
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