—RABBIT, RABBIT

  

                                                The Thin Place

 

           He calls me Mother whispering I’m sorry Mother I’m so sorry his arm hair brushing against mine the two of us in a straightjacket embrace his frame boned like a bird chest or scaffolding every skipped meal emblazoned like crude graffiti on this man-boy I love clinging to me as if I’m some kind of buoy the two of us floating in chaos and denial me with nothing left but to lift my work shirt offering him a nipple and empty breast.