MR. McGREGOR

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My dog doesn’t have blood on its teeth.
But the rabbit’s still dead.
There are long, thin ribbons of red in the grass.

There’s still that part of me,
As I’m holding that baby rabbit,
With its grey tissue paper skin,
That makes me want to dig a grave,
And put a popsicle stick cross on top.

I want to name him,
So I call him Jack.
No beanstalks here, though.
No giants, except for me.

Its stomach is bloated.
It must have just eaten.
Its mama is probably watching,
From a little clump of weeds nearby.

Is she making sure I’m doing this right?
No.
Rabbits don’t say prayers.
They just keep squirming under fences,
Dreaming about carrots and my rosemary.

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