The Hare
Olivia Bell
How to say, simply, hares give birth to strange
creatures. Too many–or not enough–eyes, heads, limbs, a ball of flesh
with a primordial mouth.
How to say the boys were down by the bridge
when they found it. And that they were throwing
stones, round and flat like pennies, light pulsing
through the water below. It is natural
to struggle against form. How to say the life
of a hare with three eyes is as good as
any other. They lined the box with rags,
river-drifted it down. And how to say
a sonnet is always as close to self-sacrifice
as is the hare, quivering, beneath the throwing stone.