Barrel-chested, saddle-backed, they ram
through barricades and baby gates, gnaw
into sheetrock, bite a neighbor’s leg.
Your Gund rabbit is a lovely find,
their long teeth sinking into its white plushness,
velvety nose, button eye.
“Why don’t you stop them?” you ask.
How to explain? You still a child, sleeping
in a blue-cloud room with voile curtains,
rag dolls, and wooden toys.
I live at the end of a narrow hallway.
My room is square without windows or door.
Only the dogs know where to find me.
Snouts high, tails curved, they walk
through walls, carrying bones,
tokens from a buried past.