Rabbits
I have never seen my father's penis.
Once, out rabbiting, he needed a piss and
standing, legs apart, in nature's cathedral
he splashed a blessing onto the ground.
If I recall correctly I had a stick,
something tall and helpful to walk with.
A sub-conscious urge to see my source
pulled me round to approach his front.
Dusk was coming on and the land began to
yawn awake- blind as it is, there's no need
to see. I didn't know where I was going
until he growled, Can't a man even take a piss!
He'd stretched the barrel on quite a few
and dropped a dozen pair or so.
Back at the house we began to clean them.
I had my new knife and Dad used the axe to
knock off their heads. Skinning rabbits was a
thrill for me. There's nothing quite like the
resistance a pelt provides
against its peeling. Still, I was a learner and
amid the smell of blood and rabbit piss
I became a little over-enthusiastic.
Pulling the knife back towards my self, I
slipped and made quite a perfect incision
in the underside flesh of my forearm.
How like a rabbit I am, I thought. I looked around
in the chiaroscuro of the floodlit yard
and hid the wound from before my father.
Fossil
for Anthony
I was hanging around the kitchen
feeling ugly when
the old man complained
of grime on a beer glass.
I was fifteen, you were ten.
Perhaps he commissioned me, I don't know,
but I found something I could do.
What a loving dimple of reason I polished.
The glass spun and captured the room
like an expensive blue lens.
Forever eager to crack my gain,
you badgered me to let you do one too
then ran all the way down our legend
to his room, the sanctuary of
a crocodile hatching its holiness.
I heard your pride sparkle
on the accomplishment,
and then the glass flew
supernaturally
from your fingers.
How did you feel my younger brother
when the object of your effort
was about to smash?
You must have been purely afraid;
close to the kind of love we knew.
That of a satellite's:
full of gravity and collision.
And the polished glass held by your tips
to ensure there was nothing of you in the gift
displayed its perfection
in a cold stationary moment.
Then shattered to alarm
that farting narcissus
woken for a moment
to be flattered by you.
He yelled, Jesus wept
and let you go.
I was convinced
you were lucky.
Russell Forster
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