Not the End: Rabbit
—Spring Melt
body’s crumple
mistaken for snow-slush.
Greyed melt off some vehicle’s
mud-flaps.
You, splayed
in the road
at the end
of my driveway.
Almost April.
Crocus nibbler.
Phosphorescent tail-
bobber weaving darkness.
Leaver of packeted pellets.
Hiding under the catnip,
eating my clematis, holly berries,
corn from the bird-feeders;
Night I crept to your shadow’s edge.
Wind hid you.
Shattered in the road
Spring lifts herself, droplets
salty from asphalt,
pain of a scraped knee.
I kneel, scoop you.
A sweep of sedge grasses,
snow-pinned curl
curves, holds you like
a mother or a lover.
Snow uncovers earth,
Grass-basket cut, sprung back,
I watch a crow inspect your bones
tear meat for nestling.
I sigh, mug-warmed hands
and
you fly away,
iridescent blue/green
wings.
I Just
Wanted to ride a bus.
Wanted to go to school.
Wanted to be in the spelling bee.
Wanted to nap on my couch.
Wanted to be an EMT, a cop;
college, a doctor.
Wanted to dash out for a pack
of smokes or a soda.
Wanted to vote.
Wanted to take my family to the beach.
Wanted a bed in a mental health clinic.
Wanted to take a run after supper.
Wanted to feel safe behind
my home’s locked door.
Wanted to be safe behind
my home’s locked door.
Wanted to be safe dreaming
in my bed behind
my home’s locked doors.
Wanted someone to say my name.
Wanted my children not to be laid out,
cuffed in a parking lot.
Wanted my sons not to have to watch
them pull me from the car.
Wanted people to believe I was trying
to grab my cell phone from the glove box.
Wanted to run faster than a bullet’s speed.
Wanted my Moms.
Wanted to be left alone with my asthma.
Wanted a gallon of milk.
I just wanted
to breathe.
Rachael Ikins is a 2016/18 Pushcart, 2013/18 CNY Book Award, 2018 Independent Book Award winner, & 2019 Vinnie Ream & Faulkner poetry finalist. She is a Syracuse University graduate and author/illustrator of nine books in multiple genres. Her writing and artwork have appeared in journals worldwide from India, UK, Japan, Canada and US.