Survivor's guilt
by Mary Lanham
It takes the rabbit three days to go
from dead in the speckled shade
to a constellation of bones and sinew
at the scalloped edge of the flower bed:
borne on first by scavenger,
then by swelling rain,
last by a seed pearl procession of maggots.
Each memento, a rebuke from the world
where I’m not here to waste it.
I’d meant to bury him under the hedge,
but god never lets things lie, and who am I
to interrupt true devotion in progress?
Who am I to hide from this out-spilled glory—
the fleet and fleeting revealing itself
as beautiful after as before?
Mary Lanham is a queer writer, editor, and collage artist based in Minnesota. She is originally from the South; her accent is still around if you know where to look. Mary's poetry has appeared most recently in Sheila-Na-Gig and Amethyst Review, and her online home is inspiritedword.com.
