ANIMALS

Because he's smaller than I am
I pick the rabbit up
by his front paws

as if shaking hands
as if begging.

Dear Mom,
this is what your daughter's
come to, what you did to me

you picked me up
that day on the beach
holding my wrists, the rest
of my body dangling
while Daddy took the picture.

So the rabbit stands there
with no words to tell me
I'm hurting him

and no voice to cry for help
a week later when the St. Bernard
from the church next door
tore open his cage,
ripped his neck open.

Now do you understand? First me,
then the rabbit, then me again --
always the wrong victim.

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Copyright © 1997 by Rochelle Ratner.

Light and Dust Mobile Anthology of Poetry.