Sometimes you are homesick,
and your puppy
presumably feeling badly for you,
brings you a dead and gutted rabbit
as a gift.
“But I didn’t get you anything.”
I washed the blood from its paws,
disbelieving someone so young
was capable of such harm,
such dismemberment–
a kind of love.
And then all the violence blazed–
the tearing, the images, the tears,
and disbelief was no longer what I felt.
I felt memory; I felt harm;
I felt dismemberment.
I lie gutted, but still feeling love
for you all.
© Deirdre Fagan
Deirdre Fagan is a widow, wife, and mother of two who has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Most recently, her work has appeared in Autumn Sky Daily, Dime Show Review, New Verse News, Nine Muses, The Opiate, and Rat’s Ass Review. Her poem, “Outside In,” was nominated for Best of the Net 2018 by Nine Muses. Fagan is also the author to Critical Companion to Robert Frost and has published a number of critical essays on poetry, memoir, and teaching pedagogy. She teaches literature and writing at Ferris State University where she is also the Coordinator of Creative Writing. Meet her at deirdrefagan.com
