Hat Rabbit

 

She never came.

They left us grief-trees

wailing at the wall.

And that was all.

 

“Death by poisoning,” by Dorothy

Molloy

 

She left us waiting

for the rabbit

in the hat but all

we got was how

long do you stare

at a black top hat

waiting for a white rabbit

to hop out? She was like

a mother for seven years.

She never came

 

back to our tearing calls.

How could she? The blood

that ran through us didn’t

match, so we couldn’t

signal her homing.

They say she flew

across the pond

because our Dad wasn’t

nice. The neighbours,

they left us grief trees

 

in their stances and stark

glances. We saw pity

seed their eyes. Tempting

to rip out

or better yet, tap

it like sap. Poor little

orphans. We aren’t

orphans. We have a father.

Our real mother just doesn’t

live with us, wailing at the wall

 

is one of the many things

she does in foreign countries.

We’ve got postcards and pictures

so we know where she is.

She’s not one for hats

or rabbits (things we can no longer

look at). Magic isn’t a trick,

it’s the return

of what you want, we know that now

and that was all.