The crow came and swooped up the first
of your litter, and you chased it across the yard
until the fence let you go no further.
When it returned, I ran out and hollered,
arms wild, but its talons were already through
the second kit’s ribs. You hopped
to the last one, its tiny neck in a pool
of burgundy. I prayed it all a bad dream,
waited for bunnies to spring up like crocuses,
mouths ready for green and air.
But the empty, trimmed grass displayed
our loss: your offspring; my naiveté.
Afterward, you sat in mourning,
in the coldest rain this April, still except
for the occasional ear twitch.
Chaos had cut through every blade
and all I did was watch
your grief from my window.
How do you tell a child
that life comes fanged?
You draw the shades, serve up
boiled eggs and toast for breakfast,
tell her to chew every bite extra slow.