Sharon M. Taylor
Josie likes his blueticks
riled up and raring,
quivering on point by the door.
They scrabble past, wild for a good chase
and something that needs to be treed.
Good girl, Atta girl!
Josie stomps in tracking blood and mud,
tosses the haunch into my good iron pot,
stains my drainboard.
Damn this unholy noise, woman,
a rabbit ought to die quietly.
Come morning, I sweep a neckbone from the porch,
pour pellets for the dogs,
a little extra for the rabbits. The trick
is never to name them. Josie must like
scraping the hides. He's whistling again,
that Easter song.