The crow came and swooped up the first

of your litter, and you chased it across the yard

until the fence let you go no further.

 

When it returned, I ran out and hollered,

arms wild, but its talons were already through

the second kit’s ribs. You hopped

 

to the last one, its tiny neck in a pool

of burgundy. I prayed it all a bad dream,

waited for bunnies to spring up like crocuses,

 

mouths ready for green and air.

But the empty, trimmed grass displayed

our loss: your offspring; my naiveté.

 

Afterward, you sat in mourning,

in the coldest rain this April, still except

for the occasional ear twitch.

 

Chaos had cut through every blade

and all I did was watch

your grief from my window.

 

How do you tell a child

that life comes fanged?

You don’t.

 

You draw the shades, serve up

boiled eggs and toast for breakfast,

tell her to chew every bite extra slow.