Corporeal

 

It isn’t about that

 

said the hare, its 

poppy petal remains 

scattered 

across the snow

 

and you hesitated, clutching still

at equations,

wanting to explain away 

mess

and loss

or deviations like pain, at the mean 

and the parameters of grief

 

but the hare laughed

at such ministrations

and with an evanescent twitch

he pointed to your heart. 

 

It’s about that,

said the hare

as he stamped the stained 

ground,

and how you love

even this

 

as the hawk circles 

overhead

with its untroubled hunger

 

ever ready 

to offer you

the sky.