A hole in the garden

Remembrance of wilder(ness)

I am Mr. McGregor

Con/Jur/d 9/2/2020

I become,
Mr. Mcgregor,
when he sees
rabbit prints
among freshly
planted arugula,
radish, kale?

Once at a French bistro
on stolen cash
another day,
it felt like the last.

I became
a cassolette
with rabbit sausage
and haricot blanc beans.

Later, when we became,
bunny Aleister’s nighttime
scratching beneath
secondhand futon,

I arose, to rid myself
of drywhite wine
with espresso,
after.

He followed me to the bathroom
as was his wont.
Us, as drove.

He watched me pee
and smelled his kin.

The look he gave.
The look he gave!
The. Look. He. Gave,

me. Not fear.
Alert to the emptiness.
The call to life, fleeting.

For three nights,
he stopped,
burrow construction
at 3 am.

How lucky I am
to be Mr. Mcgregor
becoming, daily, Leporidae.

Like his far-flung clan,
Elmer Fudd and his ill-behaved
progeny locked in, locked in eternal
battle, we become Peter,
become Bugs, become Fiver.

We become hunger,
protection, the spreading of seeds,
and future-forgotten harvests.

We become our own ghosts;
taught to be Tricksters
we become the Tricked.

The Holy Hare
dances with Coyote,
announcing resurrection
revolution and abundant continuation.

We become
the barrel, the bullet, the intention
to be thegn to the dharma.
oluwa to the land.

Forgetting deeper, become

The hollowness behind fur.
The one-eyed pauses.
Through tall stalks and vines brushing,
become flash of tail.

Without hijinx,
we turn,
scamper away.

‘til next time folks, see y’all around the kava,