On the bike path, a bunny's body and blood
where the head should be. Something
has torn off its foot, something has eaten
its heart, its entrails frozen in snow.
The plow growls past me. This morning
I left eggs behind the couch to incubate. I spent
last night walking until all the blood left my feet,
and my thighs throbbed. The snow
refuses to melt. I refuse to wear
a sweater set or heels. Instead of TV news,
I watch the sky. When it darkens,
my ribs swell, and I know it is not time
to plant. I wait for the beginning
or the end—depending on the day. Soon,
there will be enough water for all of us
to need to build a boat: the sun falls
into the street, blinding the drivers heading
north, warming the snow from inside.
(Louder Birds)