I Promise Not to Eat You

Alyse Richmond

The sun is expanding
beyond the bounds
of the Wall Street Mill
as I clasp my hands
together at the sight
of a very small rabbit.
It’s raising its whiskers,
its ears, then flicks
its cotton ball, disappears
beneath a bundle
of brush that gleams
with fiber optic needles.
I am in physical pain over this.
I wanted to scoop it
into my palm, mash it
against my cheek, feel
its jellybean heart beat
inside my bones—more
like a vibration than a rhythm.
I miss folding animals into
my body. I need that
nervous heat. Please.
I promise not to eat
you.