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.