I want this poem to be cut-up and stitched into something taxidermists would be
Do not vanish into your organs, little bunny. Long for no survivors. This
thought relies on taut skin and a necrotic flush of fur.
We wrote in our journals
eat me─ or, at least, parts of me.
She sold me before I was out of her womb. My ear was already half-bitten. Milk
teeth sore with weak. I lost them on a bed of stones. Do you remember shards of
gems the color of opal? Gumming at centipedes and millipedes, my heart forlorn
with wilted petals.
I want this poem to know exactly what its innards look like.
I want the openness of skeletons. See this? A curve of precise scalpels, steel-
My bunny-vision in ultraviolet. A frightened white eye. A pupil of stun.
Stunned, little bunny, stun.
I want to turn my tongue inside out. Taste backwards.
D U S I E