the rabbit and the fox
the dead fox rots
by the old oak tree
ribs peeking through
like bleached tombstones
it smells like honey
beeswax and cinnamon
too sweet
curled orange leaves
crunch underfoot
the rabbit
unafraid now
it stares at milky eyes
fungi pushing through
the red coat
the scent fills the rabbit’s
lungs
gunshots in the distance
the rabbit breathes deep
and runs
memento
memory cracks the skull
roots cracking stone
holding tight to breaking
burst seams
red stitching thread
patching the holes
in my childhood clothes
taking up all this space
a hoarder’s closet
too afraid
to let anything
go
cold
wind in my lungs
whistling a tune about tulips
forgotten now
bulbs dead in the frozen ground
the frost crawls up the walls
white mold
the air i breathe
visions of sugarplums
gouging out my eyes
i want to sleep
curl around my blueing fingers
empty and learned helpless
from reaching for a hand to hold
i lie in the drift
stripped cherry branches
casting cold shadows
splitting apart my frigid skin
only hollows beneath
these closed eyes
i can’t stare at my steaming heart
red staked to the snow
anymore
Brenna Boytim writes about ghosts, regrets, and reveries. She has been featured in Fifty-Word Stories, Apocalypse Confidential, and Roi Fainéant. You can find her haunting Twitter @hi_thisisbrenna.