the mother
will build her burrow
where all the others do, in
the thicket of lavender phlox tinged
by death. five
summers ago, my
dog sniffed out the nest and pinched
a baby rabbit between his sharp,
puppy teeth
and dropped it at my
mother’s feet. it died from shock,
which saved it from the feral cat that
crept into
the burrow that night
for a midnight snack, leaving
cotton tails and toothpick bones behind.
my mother
throws dirt and stones in
empty nests hidden beneath
the soft hills of phlox to warn away
the other
mothers, too young and
naïve to see through the false
sanctuary promised by tangles
of leaves, fresh
chips of mulch, dirt washed
clean of blood by the pitter-
patter of summer rainshowers. yet,
the mothers
return, year by year,
to try and find safety in
a world that’s so often cruel to those
who are not.
and maybe they’ll fail,
but maybe not. the world might
be safe after all. kind. gentle. soft.