LITTLE KILL
We stop beneath a white house
where the snow has melted off the roof and frozen
in the house’s shadow.
The dog pulls hard toward the living thing that runs.
The dog pulls hard toward the dead rabbit.
It is tethered to me, I to it.
In the front yard, a trampoline. Snow sags the fabric
at its center; water circles
the gravity well. We appear there
as we do here—as data stored in light.
Even this hour makes a record.
Two chairs face the snow mound
where an eviscerated rabbit thaws.
Four frayed bones where its paws tore off.
I step beside the little kill
to let the dog smell it. A thin shadow
here, where the rabbit’s tail
rests beside its small mouth. Touches it.
Biographical Statement
Evan Goldstein is a poet and educator from upstate New York. He holds an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and teaches English at Tunxis Community College in Connecticut. His recent poems have appeared in Oxford Poetry, Fugue, Poetry London, and Poetry Daily.