God, I loved him. Bad boy in a blue jacket.
Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail were such bores
picking berries like good little bunnies.
I wanted to squeeze under fences with Peter,
eat my fill of Mr. McGregor’s onions
and blow the stink of them into the old farmer’s face.
I wanted to run like Death himself was shaking his hoe
yelling, “Stop, Thief!”
Had my sister lived,
we would have worn matching pink sweaters,
had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.
But I recognized a scythe when I saw one,
and as many times as I made my mother read it,
there’s only ever been one Thief in this story.