Four Poems

Rabbit Season

Years before we met, we
 imagined the same rabbit
thumping a salt bush—conejo you
 whispered deep into
your desk drawer, the sound split
 my head, like how
a rock diverts rivers. I
 am your thorny
little sister not your lover. I
 watched you jump
at every skirt but mine. Later, I
 throw up green in your Juniper bush
while your lover tells me I
 am so good, so quiet when I
reveal what’s inside. Brother,
 last I heard, you watched a rabbit die
its head bashed purple on a fence post,
 it was something I couldn’t imagine.