Absinthe and her Rabbits


Falling in love has a way of

Superseding all other experience

It is a moment of enlightenment

Of uncomplicated bliss so instinctual

As to exist totally beyond the corruption

Of a necrotizing intellect.


At some point Absinthe’s relationships

Always assumed addiction and identity

But it was less the object than the need for

A continuous source of warmth,

Sometimes she found it was easier

To attach herself to the inanimate

To the texture of a cozy familiarity


The veil had lifted, the period of

Mourning Sean had passed but not

Without consequence for she had

Not been, as able as he, to disguise

Heartache, she had said some things

Terrible things that he’d not dignified

With response, only a sort of helpless

Look and then later with a knee-jerk

Display of being preoccupied, which

Made her feel pathetic but likewise

Determined to find some hobby for

Herself, some diversion from the pain

That was not just another means of

Passive suicide or acquisitional vice


As a child she had collected buttons

She used them as the eyes for stuffed

Toys and her mother, as if in some

Desperate attempt to hold on, still

Sent her buttons in weekly letters

Gifts kept in their original envelops

Untouched and guarded fiercely

From the curious hearts of any

Lover who ever dared inquire

About her formative years


She still had the stuffed rabbit

Her mother made for her as a girl, it

Slept on her bed and sometimes next

To the trash when she was angered by

The expectations imposed by relationships,

Obligations she could neither met nor

Understand, sometimes knowing that there

Was a person who would not give up on her

Drove her crazy but she could never part

With “Luca” for he had been with her

During the happiest and the most tragic

Moments of her life, never judging, never

Expecting,  as willing to be held as he

Was to absorb her tears and scorn


She hadn’t sewn in years her hands were

Clumsy, years of self medication had stolen her

Grace and the first attempts resulted in the

Application of many Band-aids and a colony

Of lumpy, disfigured rabbits. One she sent

To her mother because she felt it as a

Representation of herself just as the flawless

One sitting on her bloodstained naked mattress

Was the representation of its creator, the others

She lined up beside the wall, execution-style

But she could not bring herself to erase them


With practice her hands begin to remember

The rhythm and her rabbit family grew each

An improvement and when she had made

Enough she sat them by the doors of every

Neighbor who had children, knowing well

The poverty of where she lived, these

Rabbits made of her own clothes, curtains,

Sheets whatever she could scrape together

Of her meager possessions, these rabbits

Whose eyes were especially precious

Were Christmas gifts, a means of reaching

Out beyond the walls of her isolated

Existence, she even made one for Sean

As an apology, his wore a black t-shirt

Emblazoned with a hematic “A”


She was in love, not with a man but with

A craft, with the act of creation which

Alleviated for the moment her sense of

Being useless, for once she was using

Her hands not to harm but to comfort


As you guys know I am not in great condition at the moment I can only hope its not diminishing the quality my work too much or rendering it nonsensical

This is my submission for

We Write Poems