Two humpbacked rabbits spin,
two pillows in a washing machine,
white nose to white rump,
counterclockwise. Men dug them up
to watch, to catch them going at it
like yin and yang. But both are just white
clay slip, just gaps in the black paint
of outer space, where a body can’t
stop tumbling forever, let alone
lie down with anyone.
This is the negative signature
of their anonymous Rabbit Master,
the caption says. And it’s reading me,
my strange late-middle-aged tale of you
and me and the Master, she
who was female, very likely,
and painted jokes for the dead.
A soup bowl for a grave good.
It’s terrible, being buried alone.
You get this vessel to travel in,
but it’s already been pierced
and sunk. As if that ritual last
sharp punch could make the dead one stay,
and keep the live one company.
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