The Rabbit by Tempest Fischbach

So we come to the scene of a crime, the rabbit

In a burning field, asks God for his purpose

And how many others, and at what cost.

Bracing against the silence, he gets no reply.

His moment of existence feels frail, delicate.

The sky is so dark it is hard to believe.


In this moment the hare tries to understand what it is we believe

About love, and life, the significance of a rabbit.

Whose flesh is nothing more than delectable, delicate.

To be used for merely any one thing is to be given purpose,

So the huntsman slits his throat before the hunted can reply.

And the field, ablaze with red, is left to make up the cost.


Deep in the numbers of the living and dying, is the cost

Of the dirt beneath but he must believe

That there is more to his death than a bladed reply.

The hills and the grass and God himself mourn for the death of rabbit.

Wonder if his pain was on purpose

If his noose hangs in the balance frayed, swinging delicate.


It is worth noting that with things this delicate,

Simply remaining intact incurs a cost,

Precious in their purpose.

Things so soft must be worth it, so they believe;

Gold, China, flowers, rabbits.

They plead this case to the jury and get a guilty reply.


Pulled apart like cheap tissue, impossible to reply.

The judge lacks the skill for matters so delicate,

Better versed in the language of the hunter and not the rabbit.

At his burial, the hunter wants compensation for the pelt's cost:

Crosses the tilled dirt, asks what bunnies believe.

Deaf to the responses, dances atop the grave on purpose.


That night, the forest moves with a purpose

Swift as its reply.

If he does not know righteous judgment, he will soon believe,

He did not know his own throat was as delicate

As that prey, blood spilled at the same cost,

As that of the rabbit.


The forest replies, on behalf of the rabbit

Sings delicate songs, pays the funeral cost.

Their purpose is lost to beasts like men, who smash small the pieces of a starlit universe and see nothing to believe.

Tempest Fischbach 


Tempest Fischbach is a senior graduating this spring with a Bachelor's of Psychological Sciences. In her spare time, she frequents the Flagstaff Poetry Slam and paints. Her loves are her husband of five years, Sebastian Martinez, and her cats, Jack and Tornado.

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