#todayspoem
Biopsy by Laura Villareal
A tiny rabbit nested
in the window
my oral surgeon cut open.
He expected an ABC,
aneurysmal bone cyst,
but removed a brown rabbit instead.
They wrap my head and eyes
in a falcon hood
so I can see
my own rattling interior. The long high whistle
heightens. Sea water and blood. Bafflement
textures the air like a chorus as I’m scraped.
During surgery, my doctor finds nothing
except bone
so thin it appears void
& object on the x-ray.
As I’m stitched closed,
I hear: over, under, around, and through
meet Mr. Bunny Rabbit, pull tight and true.
A long thread falls from my mouth
& I pull. A bad habit,
pulling loose strings when I shouldn’t.
I unravel from mouth
down to my feet.